


gcpavtmcnt of tlxc gntcviov. 


Books are issued to and returned by employes, between the hours 
of 11 a. m. and 2 p. m. on all days except Sundays. 

The Library is ojjen to employes, for reference from 9 a. m. till 
4 p. in. 


LIBRARY RULES. 


1. The empl 
honow books i 

2. Before be 
the Lilirarian a 
or of the Burea 

3. No hook I 
borrower shall 

4. Of works 
of two or more 

.'i. The peric 
l)rohibited fror 
Ilepartment or 

C. Borrower 
may at the clo 
weeks. 

7. The loan 

8. Books clg 
with an (*», cai 

i*. When a 1 
must be replaci 

10. Ap])licati 
cases of sickne.* 

1 1 . Books ref 
I'ep laced upon t 

12. When a b 
renewal, its pri 
and deducted fi 

13. Writing c 
of their leaves a 
from further pi 

14. In selectr 
reidacing thosf 
number of the s 

15. Employes 
books in their j 
salaiies will be 



Class T Z 3 
Book ■ Cf '2. \ '2 e 


books charged s 
16. For infrii! 

to suspend or refuse the issue of books to the culpable per.sons. 
By order of the Secretary: 


ihorized to 

to file with 
jpartment, 

ame of the 

j ; of works 

ire strictly 
;her of the 

wo weeks, 
aoiial two 


iCatalogue 

►rrower, it 

except in 

jnined and 

cs without 
partment, 

tiing down 
■ employes 

ling them, 
iiken; the 



It of their 
^d that all 

lUthorized 


GEO. M. LO(’KAVOOI), 

Chief Clerk. 


( 13.599—10 M.) 


h 


\ 


/ 








* 


VI 




'\4 • 


* i 




« 


4 


t 

•r 


r 





0 


► . • • 

» •• 

/ 

• - • V ' 







f 






( 








[ 




/ 


i 


r*i ’ • 

• • • 



> 










» 



r 


' t 

I 


V- • 



* 


> 


r 

^ • 






I 

• » 


* 

■ f 


« 


I • 

4 



r 


r 


ft 




I 


4 


» 





i- 


1 


I . 

« 


« 



* 


lu* -i 










» < 


71 


«A 




« 








% 

I 


■s 




« 


V 


I 




* 



■A 



1 




1 



* 1 • 



4 

ft 




t 


4 ‘ 


4 



* »' 





THE 


MOQELAND COTTAGE, 


BY THE ^ 

t ■* ^ 

AUTHOR OF MARY BARTON. 



It 


4 


J ) •> 


NEW YORK: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
329 & 331 PEARL STREET, 

FRANKLIN SQUARE. 

18 G 8 . 


1 




wr 

\ 

^UN 1:^0/ 




i 





< 


€ 


C 


c 

« 

< c 
( c 

< C t 

c 









THE 


MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


CHAPTER I. 

If you take the turn to the left, after you pass 
the lyke-gate at Combehurst Church, you will come 
to the wooden bridge over the brook; keep along 
the field-path which mounts higher and higher, and, 
in half a mile or so, you will be in a breezy upland 
field, almost large enough to be called a down, where 
sheep pasture on the short, fine, elastic turf. You 
look down on Combehurst and its beautiful church- 
spire. After the field is crossed, you come to a com- 
mon, richly colored with the golden gorse and the 
purple heather, which in summer-time send out their 
v/arm scents into the quiet air. The swelling waves 
of the upland make a near horizon against the sky ; 
the line is only broken in one place by a small grove 
of Scotch firs, which always look black and shadowed 
even at mid-day, when all the rest of the landscape 
seems bathed in sunlight. The lark quivers and 
sings high up in the air ; too high — in* too dazzling 


4 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


a region for you to see her. Look ! she drops into 
sight ; but, as if loth to leave the heavenly radiance, 
she balances herself and floats in the ether. Now 
she falls suddenly right into her nest, hidden among 
the ling, unseen except by the eyes of Heaven, and 
the small bright insects that run hither and thither 
on the elastic flower-stalks. With something like 
the, sudden drop of the lark, the path goes down a 
green abrupt descent ; and in a basin, surrounded 
by the grassy hills, there stands a dwelling, which 
is neither cottage nor house, but something between 
the two in size. Nor yet is it a farm, though sur- 
rounded by living things. It is, or rather it was, at 
the time of which I speak, the dwelling of Mrs. 
Browne, the widow of the late curate of Combehurst. 
There she lived with her faithful old servant and 
her only children, a boy and girl, They were as se- 
cluded in their green hollow as the households in 
the G-erman forest-tales. Once a week they emerged 
and crossed the common, catching on its summit the 
first sounds of the sweet-toned bells, calling them to 
church. Mrs. Browne walked first, holding Edward’s 
hand. Old Nancy followed with Maggie ; but they 
were all one party, and all talked together in a sub- 
dued and quiet tone, as beseemed the day. They 
had not much to say, their lives were too unbroken ; 
for, excepting on Sundays, the widow and her chil- 
dren never went to Combehurst. Most people would 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


5 


have thought the little town a quiet, dreamy place ; 
hut to those two children it seemed the world ; and 
after they had crossed the bridge, they each clasped 
more tightly the hands which they held, and looked 
shyly up from beneath their drooped eyelids when 
spoken to by any of their mother’s friends. Mrs. 
Browne was regularly asked by some one to stay to 
dinner after morning church, and as regularly de- 
clined, rather to the timid children’s relief ; although 
in the week-days they sometimes spoke together in 
a low voice of the pleasure it would be to them if 
mamma would go and dine at Mr. Buxton’s, where the 
little girl in white and that great tall boy lived. In- 
stead of staying there, or anywhere else, on Sundays, 
Mrs. Browne thought it her duty to go and cry over 
her husband’s grave. The custom had arisen out of 
true sorrow for his loss, for a kinder husband, and 
more worthy man, had never lived; but the sim- 
plicity of her sorrow had been destroyed by the ob- 
servation of others on the mode of its manifestation. 
They made way for her to cross the grass toward 
his grave ; and she, fancying that it was expected of 
her, fell into the habit I have mentioned. Her chil- 
dren, holding each a hand, felt awed and uncomforta- 
ble, and were sensitively conscious how often they 
were pointed out, as a mourning group, to observation. 

“ I wish it would always rain on Sundays,” said 
Edward one day to Maggie, in a garden conference. 


6 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


“ Why asked she. 

Because then we hustle out of church, and get 
home as fast as we can, to save mamma’s crape ; and 
we have not to go and cry over papa.” 

“ I don’t cry,” said Maggie. “ Do you ?” 

Edward looked round before he answered, to see 
if they were quite alone, and then said ; 

“ No ; I was sorry a long time about papa, but one 
can’t go on being sorry forever. Perhaps grown-up 
people can.” 

“ Mamma can,” said little Maggie. “ Sometimes I 
am very sorry too ; when I am by myself, or playing 
with you, or when I am wakened up by the moon- 
light in our room. Do you ever waken and fancy 
you heard papa calling you ? I do sometimes ; and 
then I am very sorry to think we shall never hear 
him calling us again.” 

“ Ah, it ’s different with me, you know. He used 
to call me to lessons.” 

“ Sometimes he called me when he was displeased 
with me. But I always dream that he was calling 
us in his own kind voice, as he used to do when he 
wanted us to walk with him, or to show us something 
pretty.” 

Edward was silent, playing with something on the 
ground. At last he looked round again, and, having 
convinced himself that they could not be overheard, 
he whispered 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


7 


“ Maggie — sometimes I don’t think I’m sorry that 
papa is dead — when I’m naughty, you know; he 
would have been so angry with me if he had been 
here ; and I think — only sometimes, you know, I’m 
rather glad he is not.” 

“ Oh, Edward ! you don’t mean to say so, I know. 
Don’t let us talk about him. We can’t talk rightly, 
we’re such little children. Don’t, Edward, please.” 

Poor little Maggie’s eyes filled with tears ; and she 
never spoke again to Edward, or indeed to any one, 
about her dead father. As she grew older, her life 
became more actively busy. The cottage and small 
outbuildings, and the garden and field, were their 
own ; and on the produce they depended for much of 
their support. The cow, the pig, and the poultry took 
up much of Nancy’s time. Mrs. Browne and Mag- 
gie had to do a great deal of the house-work ; and 
when the beds were made, and the rooms swept and 
dusted, and the preparations for dinner ready, then, 
if there was any time, Maggie sat down to her les- 
sons. Ned, who prided himself considerably on his 
sex, had been sitting all the morning, in his father’s 
arm-chair, in the little book-room, “ studying,” as he 
chose to call it. Sometimes Maggie would pop her 
head in, with a request that he would help her to 
carry the great pitcher of water up-stairs, or do some 
other little household service ; with which request 
he occasionally complied, but with so many com 


8 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


plaints about the interruption, that at last she told 
him she would never ask him again. Gently as this 
was said, he yet felt it as a reproach, and tried to 
excuse himself. 

“ You see, Maggie, a man must be educated to be 
a gentleman. Now, if a woman knows how to keep 
a house, that’s all that is wanted from her. So my 
time is of more consequence than yours. Mamma 
says I ’m to go to college, and be a clergyman ; so I 
must get on with my Latin.” 

Maggie submitted in silence ; and almost felt it 
as an act of gracious condescension when, a morning 
or two afterwards, he came to meet her as she was 
toiling in from the well, carrying the great brown 
jug full of spring-water ready for dinner. “ Here,” 
said he, “ let us put it in the shade behind the horse- 
mount. Oh, Maggie ! look what you ’ve done ! Spilt 
it all, with not turning quickly enough when I told 
you. Now you may fetch it again for yourself, for 
I ’ll have nothing to do with it.” 

“ I did not understand you in time,” said she, 
softly. But he had turned away, and gone back in 
offended dignity to the house. Maggie had nothing to 
do but return to the well, and fill it again. The spring 
was some distance off, in a little rocky dell. It was 
so cool after her hot walk, that she sat down in the 
shadow of the gray limestone rock, and looked at 
the ferns, wet with the dripping water. She felt sad, 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


9 


she knew not why. “ I think Ned is sometimes very 
cross/’ thought she. “ I did not understand he was 
carrying it there. Perhaps I am clumsy. Mamma 
says I am ; and Ned says I am. Nancy never says 
so, and papa never said so. I wish I could help 
being clumsy and stupid. Ned says all women are 
so. I wish I was not a woman. It must be a fine 
thing to be a man. Oh dear ! I must go up the 
field again with this heavy pitcher, and my arms do 
so ache !” She rose and climbed the steep brae. 
As she went she heard her mother’s voice. 

“ Maggie ! Maggie ! there ’s no water for dinner, 
and the potatoes are quite boiled. Where is that 
child ?” 

They had begun dinner, before she came down 
from brushing her hair, and washing her hands. She 
was hurried and tired. 

“ Mother,” said Ned, “mayn’t I have some butter 
to these potatoes, as there is cold meat 7 They are 
so dry.” 

“ Certainly, my dear. Maggie, go and fetch a pat 
of butter out of the dairy.” 

Maggie went from her untouched dinner without 
speaking. 

“ Here, stop, you child !” said Nancy, turning her 
back in the passage. “ You go to your dinner,- 1 ’ll 
fetch the butter. You ’ve been running about enough 
to-day.” 


10 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


Maggie durst not go back without it, but she 
stood in the passage till Nancy returned ; and then 
she put up her mouth to be kissed by the kind rough 
old servant. 

“ Thou’rt a sweet one,” said Nancy to herself, as 
she turned into the kitchen ; and Maggie went back 
to her dinner with a soothed and lightened heart. 

When the meal was ended, she helped her mother 
to wash up the old-fashioned glasses and spoons, 
which were treated with tender care and exquisite 
cleanliness in that house of decent frugality; and 
then, exchanging her pinafore for a black silk apron, 
the little maiden was wont to sit down to some use- 
ful piece of needlework, in doing which her mother 
enforced the most dainty neatness of stitches. Thus 
every hour in its circle brought a duty to be ful- 
filled ; but duties fulfilled are as pleasures to the 
memory, and little Maggie always thought those 
early childish days most happy, and remembered 
them only as filled with careless contentment. 

Yet, at the time, they had their cares. 

In fine summer days Maggie sat out of doors at 
her work. Just beyond the court lay the rocky moor- 
land, almost as gay as that with its profusion of 
flowers. If the court had its clustering noisettes, 
and fraxinellas, and sweetbriar, and great tall white 
lilies, the moorland had its little creeping scented 
rose, its straggling honeysuckle, and an abundance 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


11 


of yellow cistiis ; and here and there a gray rock 
cropped out of the ground, and over it the yellow 
stone-crop and scarlet-leaved crane’s-bill grew luxu- 
riantly. Such a rock was Maggie’s seat. I believe 
she considered it her own, and loved it accordingly ; 
although its real owner was a great lord, who lived 
far away, and had never seen the nioor, much less 
the piece of gray rock, in his life. 

The afternoon of the day which I have begun to 
tell you about, she was sitting there, and singing to 
herself as she worked : she was within call of home 
and could hear all home sounds, with their shrillness 
softened down. Between her and it, Edward was 
amusing himself ; he often called upon her for sym- 
pathy, which she as readily gave. 

“ I wonder how men make their boats steady ; I 
have taken mine to the pond, and she has toppled 
over every time I sent her in.” 

“ Has it? — that’s very tiresome ! Would it do to 
put a little weight in it, to keep it down ?” 

“ How often must I tell you to call a ship ‘ her 
and there you will go on saying — it — it !” 

After this correction of his sister. Master Edward 
did not like the condescension of acknowledging her 
suggestion to be a good one ; so he went silently to 
the house in search of the requisite ballast ; but not 
being able to find anything suitable, he came back to 
his turfy hillock, littered round with chips of wood, 


12 THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 

and tried to insert some pebbles into his vessel ; but 
they stuck fast, and he was obliged to ask again. 

“ Supposing it was a good thing to weight her, 
what could I put in ?” 

Maggie thought a moment. 

“ Would shot do?” asked she. 

“ It would be the very thing ; but where can I 
get any ?” 

“ There is some that was left of papa’s. It is in 
the right-hand corner of the second drawer of the 
bureau, wrapped up in a newspaper.” 

“ What a plague ! I can’t remember your ‘ sec- 
onds,’ and ‘ right-hands,’ and fiddle-faddles.” He 
worked on at his pebbles. They would not do. 

“ I think if you were good-natured, Maggie, you 
might go for me.” 

“ Oh, Ned ! I ’ve all this long seam to do. Mamma 
said I must finish it before tea ; and that I might 
play a little if I had done it first,” said Maggie, 
rather plaintively ; for it was a real pain to her to 
refuse a request. 

“ It would not take you five minutes.” 

Maggie thought a little. The time would only be 
taken out of her playing, which, after all, did not 
signify; while Edward was really busy about his 
ship. She rose, and clambered up the steep grassy 
slope, slippery with the heat. 

Before she had found the paper of shot, she heard 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 1-3 

her mother’s voice calling, in a sort of hushed hur- 
ried loudness, as if anxious to be heard by one per- 
son, yet not by another — Edward, Edward, come 
home quickly. Here ’s Mr. Buxton coming along 
the Fell-Lane ; — he ’s coming here, as sure as six- 
pence ; come, Edward, come.” 

Maggie saw Edward put down his ship and come. 
At his mother’s bidding it certainly was; but he 
strove to make this as little apparent as he could_ 
by sauntering up the slope, with his hands in his 
pockets, in a very independent and neglige style. 
Maggie had no time to watch longer ; for now she 
was called too, and down stairs she ran. 

“ Here, Maggie,” said her mother, in a nervous 
hurry; — “help Nancy to get a tray ready all in a 
minute. I do believe here’s Mr. Buxton coming to 
call. Oh, Edward ! go and brush your hair, and put 
on your Sunday jacket ; here ’s Mr. Buxton just 
coming round. I ’ll only run up and change my cap ; 
and you say you ’ll come up and tell me, Nancy ; all 
proper, you know.” 

“ To be sure, ma’am. I ’ve lived in families afore 
now,” said Nancy, gruffly. 

“ Oh, yes, I know you have. Be sure you bring 
in the cowslip wine. I wish I could have stayed to 
decant some port.” 

Nancj^' and Maggie bustled about, in and out of 
the kitchen and dairy ; and were so deep in their 


14 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


preparations for Mr. Buxton’s reception that tlicj 
were not aware of the very presence of that gentle- 
man himself on the scene. He had found the front 
door open, as is the wont in country places, and had 
walked in ; first stopping at the empty parlor, and 
then finding his way to the place where voices and 
sounds proclaimed that there were inhabitants. So 
he stood there, stooping a little under the low-brow- 
ed lintels of the kitchen door, and looking large, and 
red, and warm, but with a pleased and almost amus- 
ed expression of face. 

“ Lord bless me, sir ! what a start you gave me !” 
said Nancy, as she suddenly caught sight of him. 

I ’ll go and tell my missus in a minute that you ’re 
come.” 

Off she went, leaving Maggie alone with the great, 
tall, broad gentleman, smiling at her from his frame 
in the door-way, but never speaking. She went on 
dusting a wine-glass most assiduously. 

“Well done, little girl,” came out a fine strong 
voice at last. “Now I think that will do. Come 
and show me the parlor where I may sit down, for 
I ’ve had a long walk, and am very tired.” 

Maggie took him into the parlor, which was 
always cool and fresh in the hottest weather. It 
was scented by a great beau-pot filled with roses ; 
and, besides, the casement was open to the fragrant 
court. Mr. Buxton was so large, and the parlor 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


15 


SO small, that when he was once in, Maggie thought 
when he went away, he could carry the room on his 
back, as a snail does its house. 

“ And so, you are a notable little woman, are 
you?” said he, after he had stretched himself (a 
very unnecessary proceeding), and unbuttoned his 
waistcoat. Maggie stood near the door, uncertain 
whether to go or to stay. “ How bright and clean 
you were making that glass ! Do you think you 
could get me some water to fill it ? Mind, it must 
be that very glass I saw you polishing. I shall know 
it again.” 

Maggie was thankful to escape out of the room ; 
and in the passage she met her mother, who had 
made time to change her gown as well as her cap. 
Before Nancy would allow the little girl to return 
with the glass of water, she smoothed her short- cut 
glossy hair ; it was all that was needed to make her 
look delicately neat. Maggie was conscientious in 
trying to find out the identical glass ; but I am afraid 
Nancy was not quite so truthful in avouching that 
one of the six, exactly similar, which were now placed 
on the tray, was the same she had found on the 
dresser, when she came back from telling her mis- 
tress of Mr. Buxton’s arrival. 

Maggie carried in the water, with a shy pride in 
the clearness of the glass. Her mother was sitting 
on the edge of her chair, speaking in unusually fine 


16 


THE BICORLAND COTTAGE. 


language, and with a higher pitched voice than com- 
mon. Edward, in all his Sunday glory, was stand- 
ing by Mr. Buxton, looking happy and conscious. 
But when Maggie came in, Mr. Buxton made room 
for her between Edward and himself, and, while she 
went on talking, lifted her on to his knee. She sat 
there as on a pinnacle of honor ; but as she durst 
not nestle up to him, a chair would have been the 
more comfortable seat. 

“ As founder’s line, I have a right of presentation ; 
and for my dear old friend’s sake” (here Mrs. 
Browne wiped her eyes), “ I am truly glad of it ; my 
young friend will have a little form of examination 
to go through ; and then we shall see him carrying 
every prize before him, I have no doubt. Thank 
you, just a little of your sparkling cowslip wine. 
Ah ! this gingerbread is like the gingerbread I had 
when I was a boy. My little lady here must learn 
the receipt, and make me some. Will she ?” 

“ Speak to Mr. Buxton, child, who is kind to your 
brother. You will make him some gingerbread, I 
am sure.” 

If I may,” said Maggie, hanging down her head. 

“ Or, I ’ll tell you what. Suppose you come to my 
house, and teach us how to make it there ; and then, 
you know, we could always be making gingerbread 
wheawe were not eating it. That would be best, I 
think. Must I ask mamma to bring you down to 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


17 


Combehurst, and let us all get acquainted together ? 
I have a great boy and a little girl at home, who will 
like to see you, I ’m sure. And we have got a pony 
for you to ride on, and a peacock and guinea fowls, 
and I don’t know what all. Come, madam, let me 
persuade you. School begins in three weeks. Let 
us fix a day before then.” 

Do mamma,” said Edward. 

“ I am not in spirits for visiting,” Mrs. Browne 
answered. But the quick children detected a hesi- 
tation in her manner of saying the oft spoken words, 
and had hopes, if only Mr. Buxton would persevere 
in his invitation. 

“ Your not visiting is the very reason why you are 
not in spirits. A little change, and a few neighborly 
faces, would do you good, I ’ll be bound. Besides, 
for the children’s sake you should not live too se- 
cluded a life. Young people should see a little of 
the world.” 

Mrs. Browne was much obliged to Mr. Buxton 
for giving her so decent an excuse for following her 
inclination, which, it must be owned, tended to the 
acceptance of the invitation. So, “ for the children’s 
sake,” she consented. But she sighed, as if making 
a sacrifice. 

“ That ’s right,” said Mr. Buxton. “ Now for 
the day.” 

It was fixed that they should go on that day 

2 


18 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


week ; and after some further conversation about the 
school at which Edward was to be placed, and some 
more jokes about Maggie’s notability, and an inquiry 
if she would come and live with him the next time 
he wanted a housemaid, Mr, Buxton took his leave. 

His visit had been an event ; and they made no 
great attempt at settling again that day to any of 
their usual employments. In the first place, Nancy 
came in to hear and discuss all the proposed plans. 
Ned, who was uncertain whether to like or dislike 
the prospect of school, was very much offended by the 
old servant’s remark, on first hearing of the project. 

‘‘ It ’s time for him. He ’ll learn his place there, 
which, it strikes me, he and others too are apt to 
forget at home.” 

Then followed discussions and arrangements re- 
specting his clothes. And then they came to the 
plan of spending a day at Mr. Buxton’s, which Mrs. 
Browne was rather shy of mentioning, having a sort 
of an idea of inconstancy and guilt connected with 
the thought of mingling with the world again. How- 
ever, Nancy approved: “It was quite right,” and 
“ just as it should be,” and “ good for the children.” 

“ Yes ; it was on their account I did it, Nancy,” 
said Mrs. Browne. 

“How many children has Mr. Buxton?” asked 
Edward. 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 19 

“ Only one. Frank, I think, they call him. But 
you must say Master Buxton ; be sure.” 

“ Who is the little girl, then,” asked Maggie, 
“ who sits with them in church ?” 

“ Oh ! that ’s little Miss Harvey, his niece, and a 
great fortune.” 

“ They do say he never forgave her • mother till 
the day of her death,” remarked Nancy. 

“ Then they tell stories, Nancy !” replied Mrs. 
Browne (it was she herself who had said it; but 
that was before Mr. Buxton’s call). For d’ye think 
his sister would have left him guardian to her child, 
if they were not on good terms ?” 

“Well! I only know what folks say. And, for 
sure, he took a spite at Mr. Harvey for no reason on 
earth ; and every one knows he never spoke to him.” 

“ He speaks very kindly and pleasantly,” put in 
Maggie. 

“ Ay ; and I ’m not saying but what he is a very 
good, kind man in the main. But he has his whims, 
and keeps hold on ’em when he ’s got ’em. There ’s 
them pies burning, and I ’m talking here I” 

When Nancy had returned to her kitchen, Mrs. 
Browne called Maggie up stairs, to examine what 
clothes would be needed for Edward. And when 
they were up, she tried on the black satin gown, 
which had been her visiting dress ever since she was 
married, and which she intended should replace the 


20 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


old, worn-out bombazine on the day of the visit to 
Combehurst. 

“ For Mrs. Buxton is a real born lady,” said she ; 
“ and I should like to be well dressed, to do her 
honor.” 

‘•I did not know there was a Mrs. Buxton,” said 
Maggie. “ She is never at church.” 

“No; she is but delicate and weakly, and never 
leaves the house. I think her maid told me she 
never left her room now.” 

The Buxton family, root and branch, formed the 
piece de resistance in the conversation between Mrs. 
Browne and her children for the next week. As the 
day drew near, Maggie almost wished to stay at 
home, so impressed was she with the awfulness of the 
visit. Edward felt bold in the idea of a new suit of 
clothes, which had been ordered for the occasion, and 
for school afterwards. Mrs. Browne remembered 
having heard the rector say, “ A woman never looked 
so lady-like as when she wore black satin,” and kept 
her spirits up with that observation ; but when she 
saw how worn it was at the elbows, she felt rather 
depressed, and unequal to visiting. Still, for her 
children’s sake, she would do much. 

After her long day’s work was ended, Nancy sat 
up at her sewing. ■ She had found out that among 
all the preparations, none were going on for Margaret ; 
and she had used her influence over her mistress (who 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


21 


half-liked and half-feared, and entirely depended 
upon her) to obtain from her an old gown, which she 
had taken to pieces, and washed and scoured, and . 
was now making up, in a way a little old-fashioned 
to be sure ; but, on the whole, it looked so nice when 
completed and put on, that Mrs, Browne gave Mag- 
gie a strict lecture about taking great care of such a 
handsome frock, and forgot that she had considered 
the gown from which it had been made as worn out 
and done for. 


CHAPTER II. 


At length they were dressed, and Nancy stood on 
the court-steps, shading her eyes, and looking after 
them, as they climbed the heathery slope leading to 
Combehurst. 

1 wish she ’d take her hand sometimes, just to let 
her know the feel of her mother’s hand. Perhaps 
she will, at least after Master Edward goes to 
school.” 

As they went along, Mrs. Browne gave the chil- 
dren a few rules respecting manners and etiquette. 

“ Maggie ! you must sit as upright as ever you 
can ; make your back flat, child, and don’t poke. If 
I cough, you must draw up. I shall cough whenever 
I see you do anything wrong, and I shall be looking 
at you all day ; so remember. You hold yourself 
very well, Edward. If Mr. Buxton asks you, you 
may have a glass of wine, because you ’re a boy. 
But mind and say, ‘ Your good health, sir,’ before 
you drink it.” 

“ I ’d rather not have the wine if I ’m to say that,” 
said Edward, bluntly. 


V THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 23 

‘‘ Oh, nonsense ! my dear. You’d wish to be like 
a gentleman, I ’m sure.” 

Edward muttered something which was inaudible. 
His mother went oh — 

“ Of course you ’ll never think of being helped 
more than twice. Twice of meat, twice of pudding, 
is the genteel thing. You may take less, but never 
more.” 

“ Oh, mamma ! how beautiful Combehurst spire is, 
with that dark cloud behind it !” exclaimed Maggie, 
as they came in sight of the town. 

“ You ’ve no business with Combehurst spire when 
I ’m speaking, to you. I ’m talking myself out of 
breath to teach you how to behave, and there you go 
looking after clouds, and such* like rubbish. I ’m 
ashamed of you.” 

Although Maggie walked quietly by her mother’s 
side all the rest of the way, Mrs. Browne was too 
much offended to resume her instructions on good- 
breeding. Maggie might be helped three times if 
she liked : she had done with her. 

They were very early. When they drew near the 
bridge, they were met by a tall, fine-lookiiig boy, 
leading a beautiful little Shetland pony, with a side- 
saddle on it. He came up to Mrs. Browne, and ad.^ 
dressed her. 

<‘My father thought your little girl would be 


24 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


tired, and he told me to bring my cousin Erminia’s 
pony for her. It ’s as quiet as can be.” 

Now this was rather provoking to Mrs. Browne, 
as she chose to consider Maggie in disgrace. How- 
ever, there was no help for it : all she could do was 
to spoil the enjoyment as far as possible, by looking 
and speaking in a cold manner, which often chilled 
Maggie’s little heart, and took all the zest out of the 
pleasure now. It was in vain that Frank Buxton 
made the pony trot and canter ; she still looked sad 
and grave. 

“ Little dull thing ! ” he thought ; but he was as 
kind and considerate as a gentlemanly boy could be. 

At last they reached Mr. Buxton’s house. It 
was in the main street, and the front door opened 
upon it by a flight of steps. Wide on each side 
extended the stone-coped windows. It was in reality 
a mansion, and needed not the neighboring contrast 
of the cottages on either side to make it look impos- 
ing. AVhen they went in, they entered a large hall, 
cool even on that burning July day, with a black 
and white flag floor, and old settees round the walls, 
and great jars of curious china, w.hich were filled 
with pot-pourrie. The dusky gloom was pleasant, 
after the glare of the street outside ; and the requi- 
site light and cheerfulness were given by the peep 
into the garden, framed, as it were, by the large* 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


25 


doorway that opened into it. There were roses, and 
sweet-peas, and poppies — a rich mass of color, which 
looked well, set in the somewhat sombre coolness of 
the hall. All the house told of wealth — wealth 
which had accumulated for generations, and which 
was shown in a sort of comfortable, grand, unosten- 
tatious way. Mr. Buxton’s ancestors had been yeo- 
men ; but, two or three generations back, they might, 
if ambitious, have taken their place as country gen- 
try, so much had the value of their property increased, 
and so great had been the amount of their savings. 
They, however, continued to live in the old farm till 
Mr. Buxton’s grandfather built the house in Combe- 
hurst of which I am speaking, and then he felt 
rather ashamed of what he had done ; it seemed like 
stepping out of his position. He and his wife always 
sat in the best kitchen ; and it was only after his 
son’s marriage that the entertaining rooms were fur- 
nished. Even then they were kept with closed shut- 
ters and bagged-up furniture during the lifetime of 
the old couple, who, nevertheless, took a pride in 
adding to the rich-fashioned ornaments and grand 
old china of the apartments. But they died, and 
were gathered to their fathers, and young Mr. and 
Mrs. Buxton (aged respectively fifty-one and forty- 
five) reigned in their stead. They had the good 
taste to make no sudden change ; but gradually the 
rooms assumed an inhabited appearance, and their 


2G THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 

son and daughter grew up in the enjoyment of great 
wealth, and no small degree of refinement. But as 
yet they held back modestly from putting them- 
selves in any way on a level with the county peo- 
ple. Lawrence Buxton was sent to the same school 
as his father had been before him ; and the notion 
of his going to college to complete his education 
was, after some deliberation, negatived. In process 
of time he succeeded his father, and married a sweet, 
gentle lady, of a decayed and very poor county 
family, by whom he had one boy before she fell into 
delicate health. His sister had married a man 
whose character was worse than his fortune, and had 
been left a widow. Everybody thought her hus- 
band’s death a blessing ; but she loved him, in spite 
of negligence and many grosser faults ; and so, not 
many years after, she died, leaving her little daugh- 
ter to her brother’s care, with many a broken-voiced 
entreaty that he would never speak a word against 
the dead father of her child. So the little Erminia 
was taken home by her self-reproaching uncle, who 
felt now how hardly he had acted towards his sister 
in breaking off all communication with her on her 
ill-starred marriage. 

“Where is Erminia, Frank?” asked his father, 
speaking over Maggie’s shoulder, while he still held 
her hand. “ I want to take Mrs. Browne to your 


T«E MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


27 


mother. I told Erminia to be here to welcome this 
little girl.” 

“ I ’ll take her ,to Minnie ; I think she ’s in the 
garden. I ’ll come back to you,” nodding to Ed- 
ward, “directly, and then we will go to the rab 
bits.” 

So Frank and Maggie left the great lofty room, 
full of strange rare things, and rich with books, and 
went into the sunny scented garden, which stretched 
far and wide behind the house. Down one of the 
walks, with a hedge of roses on either side, came 
a little tripping fairy, with long golden ringlets, 
and a complexion like a china rose. With the 
deep blue of the summer sky behind her, Maggie 
thought she looked like an angel. She neither 
hastened nor slackened her pace when she saw them, 
but came on with the same dainty light prancing 
step. 

“ Make haste, Minnie,” cried Frank. 

But Minnie stopped to gather a rose. 

“Don’t stay with me,” said Maggie, softly, al- 
though she had held his hand like that of a friend, 
and did not feel that the little fairy’s manner was 
particularly cordial or gracious. Frank took her at 
her word^ and ran off to Edward. 

Erminia came a little quicker when she saw that 
Maggie was left alone ; but for some time after they 
were together, they had nothing to say to each other. 


•28 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


Erminia was easily impressed by the pomps and 
vanities of the world ; and Maggie’s new handsome 
frock seemed to her made of old ironed brown silk. 
And though Maggie’s voice was soft, with a silver 
ringing sound in it, she pronounced her words in 
Nancy’s broad country way. Her hair was cut short 
all round ; her shoes were thick, and clumped as she 
walked. Erminia patronized her, and thought her* 
self very kind and condescending ; but they were 
not particularly friendly. The visit promised to be 
more honorable thai^ agreeable, and Maggie almost 
wished herself at home again. Dinner-time came. 
Mrs. Buxton dined in her own room. Mr. Buxton 
was hearty, and jovial, and pressing; he almost 
scolded Maggie because she would not take more 
than twice of his favorite pudding ; but she remem- 
bered what her mother had said, and that she would 
be watched all day ; and this gave her a little prim, 
quaint manner, very different from her usual soft 
charming unconsciousness. She fancied that Ed- 
ward and Master Buxton were just as little at their 
ease with each other as she and Miss Harvey. Per- 
haps this feeling on the part of the boys made all 
four children unite after dinner. 

“ Let us go to the swing in the shrubbery,” said 
Frank, after a little consideration ; and off they ran. 
Frank proposed that he and Edward should swing 
the two little girls ; and for a time all went on very 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


29 


well. But by-and-by Edward thought that Maggie 
had had enough, and that he should like a turn ; 
and Maggie, at his first word, got out. 

Don’t you like swinging ?” asked Erminia. 

“Yes! but Edward would like it now.” And 
Edward accordingly took her place. Frank turned 
away, and would not swing him. Maggie strove 
hard to do it, but he was heavy, and the swing bent 
unevenly. He scolded her for what she could not 
help, and at last jumped out so roughly, that the 
seat hit Maggie’s face, and knocked her down. When 
she got up, her lips quivered with pain, but she did 
not cry; she only looked anxiously at her frock. 
There was a great rent across the front breadth. 
Then she did shed tears — tears of fright. What 
would her mother say ? 

Erminia saw her crying. 

“ Are you hurt ?” said she, kindly. “ Oh, how 
your cheek is swelled I What a rude, cross boy 
your brother is I” 

“ I did not know he was going to jump out. I am 
not crying because I am hurt, but because of this 
great rent in my nice new frock. Mamma will be so 
displeased.” 

“ Is it a new frock ?” asked Erminia. 

“It is a new one for me. Nancy has sat up 
several nights to make it. Oh ! what shall I do?” 

Erminia’s little heart was softened by such exces- 


30 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


sive poverty. A best frock made of shabby old silk I 
She put her arms round Maggie’s neck, and said — 

“ Oome with me ; we will go to my aunt’s dress- 
ing-room, and Dawson will give me some silk, and 
I ’ll help you to mend it.” 

“ That ’s a kind little Minnie,” said Frank. Ned 
had turned sulkily away. I do not think the boys 
were ever cordial again that day ; for, as Frank said 
to his mother, “ Ned might have said he was sorry ; 
but he is a regular tyrant to that little brown mouse 
of a sister of his.” 

Erminia and Maggie went, with their arms round 
each other’s necks, to Mrs. Buxton’s dressing-room. 
The misfortune had made them friends. Mrs. Bux- 
ton lay on the sofa ; so fair and white and colorless, 
in her muslin dressing-gown, that when Maggie first 
saw the lady lying with her eyes shut, her heart gave 
a start, for she thought she was dead. But she 
opened her large languid eyes, and called them to 
her, and listened to their story with interest. 

“ Dawson is at tea. Look, Minnie, in my work- 
box ; there is some silk there. Take off your frock, 
my dear, and bring it here, and let me see how it 
can be mended.” 

“Aunt Buxton,” whispered Erminia, “do let me 
give her one of my frocks. This is such an old 


THE ^^OORLAND COTTAGE. 31 

“ Noj love. I ’ll tell you why afterwards,” answered 
Mrs. Buxton. 

She looked at the rent, and arranged it nicely for 
the little girls to mend. Erminia helped Maggie 
•with right good will. As they sat on the floor, Mrs. 
Buxton thought what a pretty contrast they made ; 
Erminia, dazzlingly fair, with her golden ringlets, 
and her pale-blue frock ; Maggie’s little round white 
shoulders peeping out of her petticoat ; her brown 
hair as glossy and smooth as the nuts that it resem- 
bled in color; her long black eye-lashes drooping 
over her clear smooth cheek, which would have given 
the idea of delicacy, but for the coral lips that spoke 
of perfect health : and when she glanced up, she 
showed long, liquid, dark-gray eyes. The deep red 
of the curtain behind, threw out these two little 
figures well. 

Dawson came up. She was a grave elderly person, 
of whom Erminia was far more afraid than she was 
of her aunt ; but at Mrs. Buxton’s desire she fin- 
ished mending the frock for Maggie. 

“ Mr. Buxton has asked some of your mamma’s 
old friends to tea, as I am not able to go down. But 
I think, Dawson, I must have these two little girls 
to tea with me. Can you be very quiet, my dears ; 
or shall you think it dull ?” 

They gladly accepted the invitation ; and Erminia 
promised all sorts of fanciful promises as to quiet- 


32 THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 

ness j and went about on her tiptoes in such a 
labored manner, that Mrs. Buxhm begged her at 
last not to try and be quiet, as she made much less 
noise when she did not. It was the happiest part 
of the day to Maggie. Something in herself was* 
so much in harmony with Mrs. Buxton’s sweet re- 
signed gentleness, that it answered like an echo, 
and the two understood each other strangely well. 
They seemed like old friends. Maggie, who was 
reserved at home because no one cared to hear 
what she had to say, opened out, and told Erminia 
and Mrs. Buxton all about her way of spending her 
day, and described her home. 

“ How odd !” said Erminia. “ I have ridden 
that way on Abdel-Kadr, and never seen your 
house.” 

“ It is like the place the Sleeping Beauty lived 
in; people sometimes seem to go round it and round 
it, and never find it. But unless you follow a little 
sheep-track, which seems to end at a gray piece of 
rock, you may come within a stone’s throw of the 
chimneys and never see them. I think you would 
think it so pretty. Do you ever come that wa}’-, 
ma’am ?” 

“ No, love,” answered Mrs. Buxton. 

“ But will you some time ?” 

“ I am afraid I shall never be able to go out 
again,” said Mrs. Buxton, in a voice which, though 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


33 


low, was very cheerful. Maggie thought how sad a 
lot was here before her ; and by-and-by she took a 
little stool, and sat by Mrs. Buxton’s sofa, and stole 
her hand into hers. 

Mrs. Browne was in full tide of pride and happi- 
ness down stairs. Mr. Buxton had a number of 
jokes ; which would have become dull from repeti- 
tion (for he worked a merry idea threadbare before 
he would let it go), had it not been for his jovial 
blandness and good-nature. He liked to make peo- 
ple happy, and, as far as bodily wants went, he had 
a quick perception of what was required. He sat 
like a king (for, excepting the rector, there was not 
another gentleman of his standing at Combehurst), 
among six or seven ladies, who laughed merrily at 
all his sayings, and evidently thought Mrs. Browne 
had been highly honored in having been asked to 
dinner as well as to tea. In the evening, the car- 
riage was ordered to take her as far as a carriage 
could go ; and there was a little mysterious hand- 
shaking between her host and herself on taking 
leave, which made her very curious for the lights of 
home by which to examine a bit of rustling paper 
that had been put in her hand with some stam- 
mered-out words about Edward. 

When every one had gone, there was a little 
gathering in Mrs. Buxton’s dressing-room. Hus- 
3 


34 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


band, son and niece, all came to give her their opin- 
ions on the day and the visitors. 

“Good Mrs. Browne is a little tiresome,” said Mr. 
Buxton, yawning. “ Living in that moorland hole, 
I suppose. However, I think she has enjoyed her 
day ; and we ’ll ask her down now and then, for 
Browne’s sake. Poor Browne ! what a good man 
he was !” 

‘ I don’t like that boy at all,” said Frank. “ I 
beg you ’ll not ask him again while I ’m at home : he 
is so selfish and self-important ; and yet he ’s a bit 
snobbish now and then. Mother ! I know what. you 
mean by that look. Well! if I am self-important 
sometimes, I ’m not a snob.” 

“ Little Maggie is very nice,” said Erminia. 
“ What a pity she has not a new frock ! Was not 
she good about it, Frank, when she tore it ?” 

“ Yes, she ’s a nice little thing enough, if she does 
not get all spirit cowed out of her by that brother. 
I ’m thankful that he is going to school.” 

When Mrs. Browne heard where Maggie had 
drank tea, she was offended. She had only sat 
with Mrs. Buxton for an hour before dinner. If 
Mrs. Buxton could bear the noise of children, she 
could not think why she shut herself up in that 
room, and gave herself such airs. She supposed it 
was because she was the granddaughter of Sir 
Henry Biddulph that she took upon herself to have 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


35 


such whims, and not sit at the head of her table, or 
make tea for her company in a civil decent way. 
Poor Mr. Buxton ! What a sad life for a merry, 
light-hearted man to have such a wife ! It was a 
good thing for him to have agreeable society some- 
times. She thought he looked a deal better for see- 
ing his friends. He must be sadly moped with that 
sickly wife. 

(If she had been clairvoyante at that moment, 
she might have seen Mr. Buxton tenderly chafing 
his wife’s hands, and feeling in his innermost soul a 
wonder how one so saint-like could ever have learnt 
to love such a boor as he was ; it was the wonderful 
mysterious blessing of his life. So little do we 
know of the inner truths of the households, where 
we come and go like intimate guests !) 

Maggie could not bear to hear Mrs. Buxton 
spoken of as a fine lady assuming illness. Her 
heart beat hard as she spoke. “ Mamma ! I am 
sure she is really ill. Her lips kept going so white ; 
and her hand was so burning hot all the time that 
I held it.” 

“Have you been holding Mrs. Buxton’s hand? 
Where were your manners? You are a little for- 
ward creature, and ever were. But don’t pretend 
to know better than your elders. It is no use 
telling me Mrs. Buxton is ill, and she able to bear 
the noise of children.” 


36 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


“ I think they are all a pack of set-up people^ 
and that Frank Buxton is the worst of all,” said 
Edward. 

Maggie’s heart sank within her to hear this cold, 
unkind way of talking over the friends who had 
done so much to make their day happy. She had 
never before ventured into the world, and did not 
know how common and universal is the custom of 
picking to pieces those with whom we have just 
been associating ; and so it pained her. She was a 
little depressed, too, with the idea that she should 
never see Mrs. Buxton and the lovely Erminia 
again. Because no future visit or intercourse had 
been spoken about, she fancied it would never take 
place; and she felt like the man in the Arabian 
Nights, who caught a glimpse of the precious 
stones and dazzling glories of the cavern, which 
was immediately after closed, and shut up into the 
semblance of hard, barren rock. She tried to re- 
call the house. Deep blue, crimson red, warm 
brown draperies, were so striking after the light 
chintzes of her own house ; and the effect of a suite 
of rooms opening out of each other was something 
quite new to the little girl ; the apartments seemed 
to melt away into vague distance, like the dim end- 
ings of the arched aisles in church. But most of 
all she tried to recall Mrs. Buxton’s face; and 
Nancy had at last to put away her work, and come 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


3T 


to bed, in order to soothe the- poor child, who was 
crying at the thought that Mrs. Buxton would soon 
die, .and tha“t she should never see her again. 
Nancy loved Maggie dearly, and felt no jealousy of 
this warm admiration of the unknown lady. She 
listened to her story and her fears till the sobs 
were hushed ; and the moon fell through the case- 
ment on the white closed eyelids of one, who still 
sighed in her sleep 


CHAPTEH III. 


In three weeks, the day came for Edward’s de- 
parture. A great cake and a parcel of gingerbread 
soothed his sorrows on leaving home. 

“ Don’t cry, Maggie !” said he to her on the last 
morning ; “ you see I don’t. Christmas will soon 
be here, and I dare say I shall find time to write 
to you now and then. Did Nancy put any citron 
in the cake ?” 

Maggie wished she might accompany her mother 
to Combehurst to see Edward off by the coach ; but 
it was not to be. She went with them, without her 
bonnet, as far as her mother would allow her ; and 
then she sat down, and watched their progress for a 
long, long way. She was startled by the sound of a 
horse’s feet, softly trampling through the long 
heather. It was Frank Buxton’s. 

“ My father thought Mrs. Browne would like to 
see the Woodchester Herald. Is Edward gone?” 
said he, noticing her sad face. 

“ Yes ! he is just gone down the hill to the coach. 
I dare say you can see him crossing the bridge, 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


39 


soon. I did so want to have gone with him,” 
answered she, looking wistfully toward the town. 

Frank felt sorry for her, left alone to gaze after 
her brother, whom, strange as it was, she evidently 
regretted. After a minute’s silence, he said — 

“ You liked riding the other day. Would you 
like a ride now ? Rhoda is very gentle, if you can 
sit on my saddle. Look ! I ’ll shorten the stirrup. 
There now ; there ’s a brave little girl ! I ’ll lead 
her very carefully. Why, Erminia durst not ride 
without a side-saddle ! I ’ll tell you what ; I ’ll 
bring the newspaper every Wednesday till I go to 
school, and you shall have a ride. Only I wish we 
had a side-saddle for Rhoda. Or, if Erminia will 
let me, I ’ll bring Abdel-Kadr, the little Shetland 
you rode the other day.” 

“ But will Mr. Buxton let you ?” asked Maggie, 
half delighted — half afraid. 

“ Oh, my father ! to be sure he will. I have him 
in very good order.” 

Maggie was rather puzzled by this way of speak- 
ing. 

“ When do you go to school ?” asked she. 

“ Toward the end of August ; I don’t know the 
day.” 

“Does Erminia go to school?’.’ 

“No. I believe she will soon though, if mamma 


40 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


does not get better.” Maggie liked the change of 
voice, as he spoke of his mother. 

“ There, little lady ! now jump down. Famous ! 
you ’ve a deal of spirit, you little brown mouse.” 

Nancy came out, with a wondering look,- to re- 
ceive Maggie. 

“ It is Mr. Frank Buxton,” said she, by way of 
an introduction. “ He has brought mamma the 
newspaper.” 

“ Will you walk in, sir, and rest % I can tie up 
your horse.” 

“ No, thank you,” said he, “ I must be off. 
Don’t forget, little Mousey, that you are to be 
ready for another ride next Wednesday.” And 
away he went. 

It needed a good deal of Nancy’s diplomacy to 
procure Maggie this pleasure ; although I don ’t 
know why Mrs. Browne should have denied it, for 
the circle they went was always within sight of the 
inoll in front of the house, if any one cared enough 
about the matter to mount it, and look after them. 
Frank and Maggie got great friends in these rides. 
Her fearlessness delighted and surprised him, she 
had seemed so cowed and timid at first. But she 
\yas only so with people, as he found out before his 
holidays ended. He saw her shrink from par- 
ticular looks and inflexions of voice of her mother’s ; 
and learnt to read them, and dislike Mrs. Browne 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


41 


accordingly, notwithstanding all her sugary manner 
toward himself. The result of his observations he 
communicated to his mother, and in consequence, 
he was the bearer of a most civil and ceremonious 
message from Mrs. Buxton to Mrs. Browne, to the 
effect that the former would be much obliged to the 
latter if she would allow Maggie to ride down 
occasionally with the groom, who would bring the 
newspapers on the Wednesdays (now Frank was 
going to school), and to spend the afternoon with 
Erminia. Mrs. Browne consented, proud of the 
honor, and yet a little annoyed that no mention 
was made of herself When Frank had bid good- 
bye, and fairly disappeared, she turned to Maggie. 

“You must not set yourself up if you go among 
these fine folks. It is their way of showing atten^ 
tion to your father and myself And you must 
mind and work doubly hard' on Thursdays to make 
up for playing on Wednesdays.” 

Maggie was in a fiush of sudden color, and a hap- 
py palpitation of her fiuttering little heart. She 
could hardly feel any sorrow that the kind Frank 
was going away, so brimful was she of the thoughts 
of seeing his mother ; who had grown strangely asso- 
ciated in her dreams, both sleeping and waking, with 
the still calm marble effigies that lay for ever clasp- 
ing their hands in prayer on the altar-tombs in 
Combehurst church. All the week was one happy 


42 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


season of anticipation. She was afraid her mother 
was secretly irritated at her natural rejoicing ; and 
so she did not speak to her about it, but she kept 
awake till Nancy came to bed, and poured into her 
sympathiing ears every detail, real or imaginary, 
of her past or future intercourse with Mrs. Buxton, 
and the old servant listened with interest, and fell 
into the custom of picturing the future with the ease 
and simplicity of a child. 

“ Suppose, Nancy ! only suppose, you know, that 
she did die. I don’t mean really die, but go into a 
trance like death ; she looked as if she was in one 
when I first saw her ; I would not leave her, but I 
would sit by her, and watch her, and watch her.” 

“ Her lips would be always fresh and red,” inter- 
rupted Nancy. 

“ Yes, I know you ’ve told me before how they 
keep red — I should look at them quite steadily ; I 
would try never to go to sleep.” 

“ The great thing would be to have air-holes left 
in the coffin.” But Nancy felt the little girl creep 
close to her at the grim suggestion, and, with the 
tact of love, she changed the subject. 

“ Or supposing we could hear of a doctor who 
could charm away illness. There were such in my 
young days ; but I don’t think people are so know- 
ledgeable now. Peggy J ackson, that lived near us 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


43 


when I was a girl, was cured of a waste by a 
charm.” . ' 

“ What is a waste, Nancy ? ” 

“ It is just a pining away. Food does not nourish 
nor drink strengthen them, but they just fade off, and 
grow thinner and thinner, till their shadow looks 
gray instead of black at noonday ; but he cured her 
in no time by a charm.” 

“ Oh, if we could find him.” 

“ Lass, he ’s dead, and she ’s dead, too, long ago !” 
While Maggie was in imagination going over 
moor and fell, into the hollows of the distant mys- 
terious hills, where she imagined all strange beasts 
and weird people to haunt, she fell asleep. 

Such were the fanciful thoughts which were en- 
gendered in the little girl’s mind by her secluded 
and solitary life. It was more solitary than ever, 
now that Edward was gone to school. The house 
missed his loud cheerful voice, and bursting pre- 
sence. There seemed much less to be done, now 
that his numerous wants no longer called for minis- 
tration and attendance. Maggie did her task of 
work on her own gray rock ; but as it was sooner 
finished, now that he was not them to interrupt and 
call her olF, she used to stray up the Fell Lane at 
the back of the house ; a little steep stony lane, more 
like stairs cut in the rock than what we, in the level 
land, call a lane : it reached on to the wide and open 


44 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


moor, and near its termination there was a knotted 
thorn-tree ; the only tree for apparent miles. Here 
the sheep crouched under the storms, or stood and 
shaded themselves in the noontide heat. The ground 
was brown with their cleft round foot-marks ; and 
tufts of wool were hung on the lower part of the 
stem, like votive offerings on some shrine. Here 
Maggie used to come and sit and dream in any 
scarce half-hour of leisure. Here she came to cry, 
when her little heart was overfull at her mother’s 
sharp fault-finding, or when bidden to keep out of 
the way, and not be troublesome. She used to look 
over the swelling expanse of moor, and the tears 
were dried up by the soft low-blowing wind which 
came sighing along it. She forgot her little home 
griefs to wonder why a brown-purple shadow always 
streaked one particular part in the fullest sunlight ; 
why the cloud-shadows always seemed to be wafted 
with a sidelong motion ; or she would imagine what 
lay beyond those old gray holy hills, which seemed 
to bear up the white clouds of Heaven on which the 
angels fiew abroad. Or she would look straight up 
through the quivering air, as long as she could bear 
its white dazzling, to try and see God’s throne in that 
unfathomable and infinite depth of blue. She thought 
she should see it blaze forth sudden and glorious, if 
she were but full of faith. She always came down 
from the thorn, comforted, and meekly gentle. 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


45 


But there was danger of the child becoming 
dreamy, and finding her pleasure in life in reverie, 
not in action, or endurance, or the holy rest which 
comes after both, and prepares for further striving 
or bearing. Mrs. Buxton’s kindness prevented this 
danger just in time. It was partly out of interest in 
Maggi-e, but also partly to give Erminia a com- 
panion, that she wished the former to come down to 
Combehurst, 

When she was on these visits, she received no 
regular instruction ; and yet all the knowledge, and 
most of the strength of her character, was derived 
from these occasional hours. It is true her mother 
had given her daily lessons in reading, writing, and 
arithmetic ; but both teacher and taught felt these 
more as painful duties to be gone through, than un- 
derstood them as means to an end. The “ There ! 
child ; now that ’s done with,” of relief, from Mrs. 
Browne, was heartily echoed in Maggie’s breast, as 
the dull routine was concluded. 

Mrs. Buxton did not make a set labor of teach- 
ing ; I suppose she felt that much was learned from 
her superintendence, but she never thought of doing 
or saying anything with a latent idea of its indirect 
effect upon the little girls, her companions. She was 
simply herself ; she even confessed (where the con- 
fession was called for) to short-comings, to faults, 
and never denied the force of temptations, either of 


46 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


those which beset little children, or of those which 
occasionally assailed herself. Pure, simple, and 
truthful to the heart’s core, her' life, in its uneventful 
hours and days, spoke many homilies. Maggie, who 
was grave, imaginative, and somewhat quaint, took 
pains in finding words to express the thoughts to 
which her solitary life had given rise, secure of Mrs. 
Buxton’s ready understanding and sympathy. 

“You are so like a cloud,” said she to Mrs. Buxton. 
“ Up at the Thorn-tree, it was quite curious how the 
clouds used to shape themselves, just according as 1 
was glad or sorry. I have seen the same clouds, 
that, when I came up first, looked like a heap of lit- 
tle snow-hillocks over babies’ graves, turn, as soon 
as I grew happier, to a sort of long bright row of 
angels. And you seem always to have had some sor- 
row when I am sad, and turn bright and hopeful as 
soon as I grow glad. Dear Mrs. Buxton ! I wish 
Nancy knew you.” 

The gay, volatile, wilful, warm-hearted Erminia 
was less earnest in all things.. Her childhood had 
been passed amid the distractions of wealth ; and 
passionately bent upon the attainment of some object 
at one moment, the next found her angry at being 
reminded of the vanished anxiety she had shown but 
a moment before. Her life was a shattered mirror ; 
every part dazzling and brilliant, but wanting the 
coherency and perfection of a whole. Mrs. Buxton 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


47 


strove to bring her to a sense of the beauty of com- 
pleteness, and the relation which qualities and objects 
bear to each other ; but in all her striving she re- 
tained hold of the golden clue of sympathy. She 
would enter into Erminia’s eagerness, if the object 
of it varied twenty times a day ; but by-and-by, in 
her own mild, sweet, suggestive way, she would place 
all these objects in their right and fitting places, as 
they were worthy of desire. I do not know how it 
was, but all discords, and disordered fragments, 
seemed to fall into harmony and order before her 
presence. 

She had no wish to make the two little girls into 
the same kind of pattern character. They were 
diverse as the lily and the rose. But she tried to 
give stability and earnestness to Erminia; while she 
aimed to direct Maggie’s imagination, so as to make 
it a great minister to high ends, instead of simply 
contributing to the vividness and duration of a 
reverie. 

She told her tales of saints and martyrs, and all 
holy heroines, who forgot themselves, and strove only 
to be “ ministers of Him, to do His pleasure.” The 
tears glistened in the eyes of hearer and speaker, 
while she spoke in her low, faint voice, which was 
almost choked at times when she came to the noblest 
part of all. 

But when she found that Maggie was in danger 


48 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


of becoming too little a dweller in the present, from 
the habit of anticipating the occasion for some great 
heroic action, she spoke of other heroines. She told 
her how, though the lives of these women of old were 
only known to us through some striking glorious 
deed, they yet must have built up the temple of their 
perfection by many noiseless stories ; how, by small 
daily offerings laid on the altar, they must have ob- 
tained their beautiful strength for the crowning 
sacrifice. And then she would turn and speak of 
those whose names will never be blazoned on earth 
— some poor maid-servant, or hard-worked artisan, 
or weary governess — who have gone on through life 
quietly, with holy purposes in their hearts, to which 
they gave up pleasure and ease, in a soft, still, suc- 
cession of resolute days.. She quoted those lines of 
George Herbert’s, 

“ All may have, 

If they dare choose, a glorious life, or grave.” 

And Maggie’s mother w'as disappointed because Mrs. 
Buxton had never offered to teach her “ to play on 
the piano,” which was to her the very head and front 
of a genteel education. Maggie, in all her time of 
yearning to become Joan of Arc, or some great 
heroine, was unconscious that she herself showed no 
little heroism, in bearing meekly what she did every 
day from her mother. It was hard to be questioned 
about Mrs. Buxton, and then to have her answers 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


49 


turned into subjects for contempt, and fault-finding 
with that sweet lady’s ways. 

When Ned came home for the holidays, he had 
much to tell. His mother listened for hours to his 
tales ; and proudly marked all that she could note 
of his progress in learning. His copy-books and 
writing-flourishes were a sight to behold; and his 
account-books contained towers and pyramids of 
figures. 

“ Ay, ay !” said Mr. Buxton, when they were 
shown to him ; “ this is grand ! when I was a boy I 
could make a flying eagle with one stroke of my pen, 
but I never could do all this. And yet I thought 
myself a fine fellow, I warrant you. And these 
sums ! why man ! I must make you my agent. I 
need one, I hn sure ; for though I get an accountant 
every two or three years to do up my books, they 
somehow have the knack of getting wrong again. 
Those quarries, Mrs. Browne, which every one says 
are so valuable, and for the stone out of which I 
receive orders amounting to hundreds of pounds, 
what d ’ye think was the profit I made last year, ac- 
cording to my books ?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know, sir; something very 
great, I ’ve no doubt.” 

“ Just seven-pence three farthings,” said he, burst- 
ing into a fit of merry laughter, such as another 
man would have kept for the announcement of enor- 
4 


50 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


mous profits. “ But I must manage things differently 
soon. Frank will want money when he goes to Ox- 
ford, and he shall have it. I ’m hut a rough sort of 
fellow, but Frank shall take his place as a gentle- 
man. Aha, Miss Maggie ! and where ’s my ginger- 
bread ? There you go, creeping up to Mrs. Buxton 
on a Wednesday, and have never taught Cook how 
to make gingerbread yet. Well, Ned ! and how are 
the classics going on ? Fine fellow, that Virgil ! Let 
me see, how does it begin? 

■ Arma, virumque cano, Trojae qui primus ab oris.’ 

That ’s pretty well, I think, considering I ’ve 
never opened him since I left school thirty years 
ago. To he sure, I spent six hours a day at it when 
I was there. Come now, I ’ll puzzle you. Can you 
construe this? 

“ Infir dealis, inoak noneis ; inmud eelis, inelay noneis.’ ” 

“ To he sure I can,” said Edward, with a little 
contempt in his tone. “ Can you do this, sir ? 

“ ‘ Apud in is almi des ire, 

Mimis tres i neve require, 

Alo veri findit a gestis, 

Ilis miseri ne ver at restis.’ ’ 

But though Edward had made much progress, 
and gained three prizes, his moral training had been 
little attended to. He was more tyrannical than 
ever, both to his mother and Maggie. It was a 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


51 


drawn battle between him and Nancy, and they kept 
aloof from each other as much as possible. Maggie 
fell into her old humble way of submitting to his 
will, as long as it did not go against her conscience ; 
but that, being daily enlightened by her habits of 
pious aspiring thought, would not allow her to be 
so utterly obedient as formerly. In addition to his 
imperiousness, he had learned to affix the idea of 
cleverness to various artifices and subterfuges, which 
utterly revolted her by their meanness. 

“ You are so set up, by being intimate with 
Erminia, that you won’t do a thing I tell you ; 

you ’re as selfish and self-willed as ” he made 

a pause. Maggie was ready to cry. 

“ I will do anything, Ned, that is right.” 

“ Well ! and I tell you this is right.” 

“ How can it be ?” said she, sadly, almost wishing 
to be convinced. 

“ How — why it is, and that ’s enough for you. 
You must always have a reason for everything now. 
You’re not half so nice as you were. Unless one 
chops logic with you, and convinces you by a long 
argument, you’ll do nothing. Be obedient, I tell 
you. That is what a woman has to be.” 

“ I could be obedient to some people, without 
knowing their reasons, even though they told me to 
do silly things,” said Maggie, half to herself. 


52 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


“ I should like to know to whom,” said Edward, 
scornfully. 

“ To Eon Quixote,” answered she, seriously ; for. 
indeed, he was present in her mind just then, and 
his noble, tender, melancholy character had made a 
strong impression there. 

Edward stared at her for a moment, and then 
burst into a loud fit of laughter. It had the good 
effect of restoring him to a better frame of mind. 
He had such an excellent joke against his sister, 
that he could not be angry with her. He called her 
Sancho Panza all the rest of the holidays, though 
she protested against it, saying she could not bear 
the Squire, and disliked being called by his name. 

Frank and Edward seemed to have a mutual antip- 
athy to each other, and the coldness between them 
was rather increased than diminished by all Mr. 
Buxton’s efforts to bring them together. “ Come, 
Frank, my lad !” said he, “ don’t be so stiff with 
Ned. His father was a dear friend of mine, and 
I’ve set my heart on seeing you friends. You’ll 
have it in your power to help him on in the world.” 

But Frank answered, “ He is not quite honorable, 
sir. I can’t bear a boy who is not quite honorable. 
Boys brought up at those private schools are so full 
of tricks !” 

“ Nay, my ladi there thou ’rt wrong. I was brought 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


53 


up at a private school, and no one can say I ever 
dirtied my hands with a trick in my life. Good old 
Mr. Thompson would have flogged the life out of a 
boy who did anything mean or underhand.” 


OHAPTEE IV. 


Summers and winters came and went, with little 
to mark them, except the growth of the trees, and 
the quiet progress of young creatures. Erminia was 
sent to school somewhere in France, to receive more 
regular instruction than she could have in the house 
with her invalid aunt. But she came home once a 
year, more lovely and elegant and dainty than ever ; 
and Maggie thought, with truth, that ripening years 
were softening down her volatility, and that her 
aunt’s dewlike sayings had quietly sunk deep, and 
fertilized the soil. That aunt was fading away. 
Maggie’s devotion added materially to her happi- 
ness ; and both she and Maggie never forgot that 
this devotion was to be in all things subservient to 
the duty which she owed to her mother. 

“ My love,” Mrs. Buxton had more than once said, 
“ you must always recollect that your first duty is 
toward your mother. You know how glad I am to 
see you ; but I shall always understand how it is, if 
you do not come. She may often want you when 
neither you nor I can anticipate it.” 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


55 


Mrs. Browne had no great wish to keep Maggie 
at home, though she liked to grumble at her going. 
Still she felt that it was best, in every way, to keep 
on good terms with such valuable friends ; and she 
appreciated, in some small degree, the advantage 
which her intimacy at the house was to Maggie. 
But yet she could not restrain a few complaints, nor 
withhold from her, on her return, a recapitulation of 
all the things which might have been done if she 
had only been at home, and the number of times 
that she had been wanted ; but when she found that 
Maggie quietly gave up her next Wednesday’s visit 
as soon as she was made aware of any necessity for 
her presence at home, her mother left off grumbling, 
and took little or no notice of her absence. 

When the time came for Edward to leave school, 
he announced that he had no intention of taking 
orders, but meant to become an attorney. 

“ It ’s such slow work,” said he to his mother. 
“ One toils away for four or five years, and then one 
gets a curacy of seventy pounds a-year, and no end 
of work to do for the money. Now the work is not 
much harder in a lawyer’s office, and if one has one’s 
wits about one, there are hundreds and thousands 
a-year to be picked up with mighty little trouble.” 

Mrs. Browne was very sorry for this determination. 
She had a great desire to see her son a clergyman, 
like his father. She did not consider whether his 


56 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


character was fitted for so sacred an office; she 
rather thought that the profession itself, when once 
assumed, would purify the character; but, in fact, 
his fitness or unfitness for holy orders entered little 
into her mind. She had a respect for the profession, 
and his father had belonged to it. 

“ I had rather see you a curate at seventy pounds 
a-year, than an attorney with seven hundred,” replied 
she. “ And you know your father was always asked 
to dine everywhere — to places where I know they 
would not have asked Mr. Bish, of Woodchester, and 
he makes his thousand a-year. Besides, Mr. Bux- 
ton has the next presentation to Combehurst, and 
you would stand a good chance for your father’s 
sake. And in the mean time you should live here, 
if your curacy was any way near.” 

“ I dare say ! Catch me burying myself here 
again. My dear mother, it ’s a very respectable place 
for you and Maggie to live in, and I dare say you 
don’t find it dull ; but the idea of my quietly sitting 
down here is something too absurd !” 

“ Papa did, and was very happy,” said Maggie. 

“ Yes ! after he had been at Oxford,” replied 
Edward, a little nonplussed by this reference to one 
whose memory even the most selfish and thoughtless 
must have held in respect. 

•“Well! and you know you would have to go to 
Oxford first.” 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


57 


“ Maggie ! I wish you would not interfere between 
my lAother and me. I want to have it settled and 
done with, and that it will never be if you keep 
meddling. Now, mother, don’t you see how much 
better it will be for me to go into Mr. Bish’s office ? 
Harry Bish has spoken to his father about it.” 

Mrs. Browne sighed. 

“ What will Mr. Buxton say?” asked she, dolefully. 

“ Say ! Why don’t you see it was he who 
first put it into my head, by telling me that first 
Christmas holidays, that I should be his agent. 
That would be something, would it not ? Harry 
Bish says he thinks a' thousand a-year might be 
made of it.” 

His loud, decided, rapid talking overpowered Mrs. 
Browne ; but she resigned herself to his wishes with 
more regret than she had ever done before. It was 
not the first case in which fluent declamation has 
taken the place of argument. 

Edward was articled to Mr. Bish, and thus gained 
his point. There was no one with power to resist 
his wishes, except his mother and Mr. Buxton. 
The former had long acknowledged her son’s will as 
her law ; and the latter, though surprised and almost 
disappointed at a change of purpose which he had 
never anticipated in his plans for Edward’s benefit, 
gave his consent, and even advanced some of the 
money requisite for the premium. 


58 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


Maggie looked upon this change with mitigled 
feelings. She had always from a child pi<5tured 
Edward to herself as taking her father’s place. 
When she had thought of him as a man, it was as 
contemplative, grave, and gentle, as she remembered 
her father. With all a child’s deficiency of reason- 
ing power, she had never considered how impossible 
it was that a selfish, vain, and impatient boy could 
become a meek, humble, and pious man, merely by 
adopting a profession in which such qualities are re- 
quired. But now, at sixteen, she was beginning to 
understand all this. Not by any process of thought, 
but by something more like a correct feeling, she 
perceived that Edward would never be the true minis- 
ter of Christ. So, more glad and thankful than sorry, 
though sorrow mingled with her sentiments, she 
learned the decision that he was to be an attorney. 

Frank Buxton all this time was growing up into 
a youDg man. The hopes both of father and 
mother were bound up in him ; and, according to 
the difference in their characters was the difference 
in their hopes. It seemed, indeed, probable that 
Mr. Buxton, who was singularly void of worldliness 
or ambition for himself, would become worldly and 
ambitious for his son. His hopes for Frank were 
all for honor and distinction here. Mrs. Buxton’s 
hopes were prayers. She was fading away, as light 
fades into darkness on a summer evening. No one 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


59 


seemed to remark tlie gradual progress ; but she 
was ‘fully conscious of it herself The last time 
that Frank was at home from college before her 
death, she knew that she should never see him 
again ; and when he gaily left the house, with a 
cheerfulness, which was partly assumed, she dragged 
herself with languid steps into a room at the front 
of the house, from which she could watch him down 
the long, straggling little street, that led to the inn 
from which the coach started. As he went along, 
he turned to look back at his home ; and there he 
saw his mother’s white figure gazing after him. He 
could not see her wistful eyes, but he made her 
poor heart give a leap of joy by turning round and 
running back for one more kiss and one more bless- 
ing. 

When he next came home, it was at the sudden 
summons of her death. 

His father was as one distracted. He could not 
speak of the lost angel without sudden bursts of 
tears, and oftentimes of self-upbraiding, which dis- 
turbed the calm, still, holy ideas, which Frank liked 
to associate with her. He ceased speaking to him, 
therefore, about their mutual loss ; and it was a cer- 
tain kind of relief to both when he did so ; but he 
longed for some one to whom he might talk of his 
mother, with the quiet reverence of intense and 
trustful affection. He thought of Maggie, of whom 


60 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


he had seen hut little of late; for when he had 
been at Combehurst, she had felt that Mrs. Buxton 
required her presence less, and had remained more 
at home. Possibly Mrs. Buxton regretted this; 
but she never said anything. She, far-looking, as 
one who was near death, foresaw that, probably, if 
Maggie and her son met often in her sick-room, 
feelings might arise which would militate against 
her husband’s hopes and plans, and which, therefore, 
she ought not to allow to spring up. But she had 
been unable to refrain from expressing her grati- 
tude to Maggie for many hours of tranquil happi- 
ness, and had unconsciously dropped many sen- 
tences which made Frank feel, that, in the little 
brown mouse of former years, he was likely to meet 
with one who could tell him much of the inner his- 
tory of his mother in her last days, and to whom 
he could speak of her without calling out the pas- 
sionate sorrow which was so little in unison with 
her memory. 

Accordingly, one afternoon, late in the autumn, 
he rode up to Mrs. Browne’s. The air on the 
heights was so still, that nothing seemed to stir. 
Now and then a yellow leaf came floating down 
from the trees, detached from no outward violence, 
but only because its life had reached its full limit 
and then ceased. Looking down on the distant 
sheltered woods, they were gorgeous in orange and 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


61 


crimson, but their splendor was felt to be the sign 
of the decaying and dying year. Even without an 
inward sorrow, there was a grand solemnity in the 
season which impressed the mind, and hushed it 
into tranquil thought. Frank rode slowly along, 
and quietly dismounted at the old horse-mount, be- 
side which there was an iron bridle-ring fixed in the 
gray stone wall. He saw the casement of the 
parlor-window open, and Maggie’s head bent down 
over her work. She looked up as he entered the 
court, and his footsteps sounded on the flag-walk. 
She came round and opened the door. As she 
stood in the door-way, speaking, he was struck by 
her resemblance to some old painting. He had 
seen her young, calm face, shining out with great 
peacefulness, and the large, grave, thoughtful eyes, 
giving the character to the features which otherwise 
they might, from their very regularity, have wanted. 
Her brown dress had the exact tint which a painter 
would have admired. The slanting mellow sunlight 
fell upon her as she stood ; and the vine-leaves, 
already frost-tinted, made a rich, warm border, as 
they hung over the old house-door. 

“ Mamma is not well ; she is gone to lie down. 
How are you % How is Mr. Buxton 

“We are both pretty well ; quite well, in fact, as 
far as regards health. May I come in ? I want to 
talk to you, Maggie !” 


62 THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 

She opened the little parlor-door, and thej went 
in; but for a time they were both silent. They 
could not speak of her who was with them, present 
in their thoughts. Maggie shut the casement, and 
put a log of wood on the fire. She sat down with 
her back to the window; but as the flame sprang 
up, and blazed at the touch of the dry wood, Frank 
saw that her face was wet with quiet tears. Still 
her voice was even and gentle, as she answered his 
questions. She seemed to understand what were 
the very things he would care most to hear. She 
spoke of his mother’s last days ; and without any 
word of praise (which, indeed, would have been im- 
pertinence), she showed such a just and true appre- 
ciation of her who was dead and gone, that he felt 
as if he could listen forever to the sweet-dropping 
words. They were balm to his sore heart. He 
had thought it possible that the suddenness of her 
death might have made her life incomplete, in that 
she might have departed without being able to ex- 
press wishes and projects, which would now have 
the sacred force of commands. But he found that 
Maggie, though she had never intruded herself as 
such, had been the depository of many little 
thoughts and plans ; or, if they were not expressed 
to her, she knew that Mr. Buxton or Dawson was 
aware of what they were, though, in their violence 
of early grief, they had forgotten to name them. 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


63 


The flickering brightness of the flame had died 
away ; the gloom of evening had gathered into the 
room, through the open door of which the kitchen 
fire sent a ruddy glow, distinctly marked against 
carpet and wall. Frank still sat, with his head 
buried in his hands against the table, listening. 

“ Tell me more,” he said, at every pause. 

“ I think I have told you all now,” said Maggie, 
at last. “ At least, it is all I recollect at present ; 
but if I think of anything more, I will be sure and 
tell you.” 

“ Thank you ; do.” He was silent for some 
time. 

“ Erminia is coming home at Christmas. She is 
not to go back to Paris again. She will live with 
us. I hope you and she will be great friends, 
Maggie.” 

“ Oh yes,” replied she. “ I think we are already. 
At least we were last Christmas. You know it is 
a year since I have seen her.” 

“ Yes ; she went to Switzerland with Mademoi- 
selle Michel, instead of coming home the last time. 
Maggie, I must go, now. My father will be wait- 
ing dinner for me.” 

“ Dinner ! I was going to ask if you would not 
stay to tea. I hear mamma stirring about in her 
room. And Nancy is getting things ready, I see. 
Let me go and tell mamma. She will not be 


G4 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


pleased unless she sees you. She has been very 
sorry for you all,” added she, dropping' her voice. 

Before he could answer, she ran up stairs. 

Mrs. Browne came down. 

“ Oh, Mr. Frank ! Have you been sitting in 
the dark ? Maggie, you ought to have rung for can- 
dles ! Ah ! Mr. Frank, you ’ve had a sad loss since 
1 saw you here— let me see — in the last week of 
September. But she was always a sad invalid ; and 
no doubt your loss is her gain. Poor Mr. Buxton, 
too ! How is he ? When one thinks of him, and 
of her years of illness, it seems like a happy 
release.” 

She could have gone on for any length of time, 
but Frank could not bear this ruffling up of his 
soothed grief, and told her that his father was ex- 
pecting him home to dinner. 

“ Ah ! I am sure you must not disappoint him. 
He’ll want a little cheerful company more than 
ever now. You must not let him dwell on it, Mr. 
Frank, but turn his thoughts another way by 
always talking of other things. I am sure if I had 
some one to speak to me in a cheerful, pleasant 
way, when poor dear Mr. Browne died, I should 
never have fretted after him as I did ; but the 
children were too young, and there was no one to 
come and divert me with any news. If I ’d been 
living in Combehurst, I am sure I should not have 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


65 


let my grief get the better of me as I did. Could 
you get up a quiet rubber in the evenings, do you 
think?” 

But Frank had shaken hands and was gone. As 
he rode home he thought much of sorrow, and the 
different ways of bearing it. He decided that it 
was sent by Grod for some holy purpose, and to call 
out into existence some higher good; and* he 
thought that if it were faithfully taken as His 
decree, there would be no passionate, despairing re- 
sistance to it ; nor yet, if it were trustfully acknow- 
ledged to have some wise end, should we dare to 
baulk it, and defraud it by putting it on one side, 
and, by seeking the distractions of worldly things, 
not let it do its full work. And then he returned 
to his conversation with Maggie. That had been 
real comfort to him. What an advantage it would 
be to Erminia to have such a girl for a friend and 
companion ! 

It was rather strange that, having this thought, 
and having been struck, as I said, with Maggie’s 
appearance while she stood in the doorway (and I 
may add that this impression of her unobtrusive 
beauty had been deepened by several succeeding in- 
terviews), he should reply as he did to Erminia’s re- 
mark, on first seeing Maggie after her return from 
France. 

“ How lovely Maggie is growing ! Why, I had 


66 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


no idea she would ever turn out pretty. Sweet- 
looking she always was ; hut now her style of beau- 
ty makes her positively distinguished. Frank! 
speak 1 is not she beautiful 

“ Do you think so answered he, with a kind of 
lazy indifference, exceedingly gratifying to his 
father, who was listening with some eagerness to 
his enswer. That day, after dinner, Mr. Buxton 
began to ask his opinion of Erminia’s appearance. 

Frank answered at once — 

“ She is a dazzling little creature. Her complex- 
ion looks as if it were made of cherries and milk ; 
and, it must be owned, the little lady has studied 
the art of dress to some purpose in Paris.” 

Mr. Buxton was nearer happiness at this reply 
than he had ever been since his wife’s death ; for the 
only way he could devise to satisfy his reproachful 
conscience towards his neglected and unhappy sister, 
was to plan a marriage between his son and her 
child. He rubbed his hands, and drank two extra 
glasses of wine. 

We ’ll have the Brownes to dinner, as usual, next 
Thursday,” said he, “ I am sure your mother would 
have been hurt if we had omitted it ; it is now nine 
years since they began to come, and they have never 
missed one Christmas since. Do you see any ob- 
jection, Frank ?” 

“ None at all, sir,” answered he. “ I intend to 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 67 

go up to town soon after Christmas, for a week or 
ten days, on my way to Cambridge. Can I do any- 
thing for you 

“ Well, I don’t know. I think I shall go up my- 
self some day soon. I can’t understand all these 
^lawyer’s letters, about the purchase of the Newbridge 
estate ; and I fancy I could make more sense out of 
it all, if I saw Mr. Hodgson.” 

“ I wish you would adopt my plan, of having an 
agent, sir. Your affairs are really so complicated 
now, that they would take up the time of an expert 
man of business. I am sure all those tenants at 
Dumford ought to be seen after.” 

“ I do see after them. There ’s never a one that 
dares cheat me, or that would cheat me if they 
could. Most of them have lived under the Buxtons 
for generations. They know that if they dared to 
take advantage of me, I should come down upon 
them pretty smartly.” 

Do you rely upon their attachment to your 
family — or on their idea of your severity ?” 

“On both. They stand me instead of much 
trouble in account-keeping, and those eternal lawyers’ 
letters some people are always dispatching to their 
tenants. When I’m cheated, Frank, I give you 
leave to make me have an agent, but not till then. 
There ’s my little Erminia singing away, and nobody 
to hear her.” 


CHAPTER V. 


Christmas-day was strange and sad. Mrs. Bux- 
ton had always contrived to be in the drawing-room, 
ready to receive them all after dinner. Mr. Buxton 
tried to do away with his thoughts of her by much 
talking ; but every now and then he looked wistfully 
toward the door. Erminia exerted herself to be as 
lively as she could, in order, if possible, to fill up the 
vacuum. Edward, who had come over from Wood- 
chester for a walk, had a good deal to say ; and was, 
unconsciously, a great assistance with his never-end- 
ing fiow of rather clever small-talk. His mother 
felt proud of her son, and his new waistcoat, which 
was far more conspicuously of the latest fashion than 
Frank’s could be said to be. After dinner, when 
Mr. Buxton and the two young men were left alone, 
Edward launched out still more. He thought he was 
impressing Frank with his knowledge of the world, 
and the world’s ways. But he was doing all in his 
power to repel one who had never been much attract- 
ed toward him. Worldly success was his standard 
of merit. The end seemed with him to justify the 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


69 


means ; if a man prospered, it was not necessary to 
scrutinize his conduct too closely. The law was 
viewed in its lowest aspect ; and yet with a certain 
cleverness, which preserved Edward from being 
intellectually contemptible. Frank had entertained 
some idea of studying for a barrister himself : not 
so much as a means of livelihood as to gain some 
idea of .the code which makes and shows a nation’s 
conscience : but Edward’s details of the ways in 
which the letter so often baffles the spirit, made 
him recoil. With some anger against himself, 
for viewing the profession with disgust, because it 
was degraded by those who embraced it, instead of 
looking upon it as what might be ennobled and 
purified into a vast intelligence by high and pure- 
minded men, he got up abruptly and left the room. 

The girls were sitting over the drawing-room fire, 
with unlighted candles on the table, talking, he felt, 
about his mother ; but when he came in they rose, 
and changed their tone. Erminia went to the piano, 
and sang her newest and choicest French airs. Frank 
was gloomy and silent ; but when she changed into 
more solemn music his mood was softened. Maggie’s 
simple and hearty admiration, untinged by the slight- 
est shade of envy for -Erminia’s accomplishments, 
charmed him. The one appeared to him the perfec- 
tion of elegant art, the other of graceful nature. 
When he looked at Maggie, and thought of the 


70 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


moorland home from which she had never wandered, 
the mysteriously beautiful lines of Wordsworth 
seemed to become sun-clear to him. 

“ And she shall lean her ear 
In many a secret place 
Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 

And beauty horn of murmuring sound 
Shall pass into her face.” 

Mr. Buxton, in the dining-room, was really getting 
to take an interest in Edward’s puzzling cases. 
They were like tricks at cards. A quick motion, 
and out of the unpromising heap, all confused to- 
gether, presto ! the right card turned up. Edward 
stated his case, so that there did not seem a loophole 
for the desired verdict ; but, through some conjura- 
tion, it always came uppermost at last. He had a 
graphic way of relating things ; and, as he did not 
spare epithets in his designation of the opposing 
party, Mr. Buxton took it upon trust that the de- 
fendant or the prosecutor (as it might happen) was a 
“ pettifogging knave,” or a “ miserly curmudgeon,” 
and rejoiced accordingly in the triumph over him 
gained by the ready wit of “our governor,” Mr. 
Bish. At last he became so deeply impressed with 
Edward’s knowledge of law, las to consult him about 
some cottage property he had in Woodchester. 

“ I rather think there are twenty-one cottages, and 
they don’t bring me in four pounds a-year ; and out 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


71 


of that I have to pay for collecting. Would there be 
any chance of selling them ? They are in Doughty- 
Rtreet ; a bad neighborhood, I fear.” 

“ Very bad,” was Edward’s prompt reply. But 
if you are really anxious to effect a sale, I have no 
doubt I could find a purchaser in a short time.” 

“ I should be very much obliged to you,” said 
Mr. Buxton. “ You would be doing me a kindness. 
If you meet with a purchaser, and can manage the 
affair, I would rather that you drew out the deeds for 
the transfer of the property. It would be the be- 
ginning of business for you ; and I only hope I 
should bring you good luck.” 

Of course Edward could do this ; and when they 
left the table, it was with a feeling on his side that he 
7as a step nearer to the agency which he coveted ; 
itnd with a happy consciousness on Mr. Buxton’s of 
having put a few pounds in the way of a deserving 
and remarkably clever young man. 

Since Edward had left home, Maggie had gradu- 
ally, but surely, been gaining in importance. Her 
judgment and her untiring unselfishness could not 
fail to make way. Her mother had some respect for, 
and great dependence on her ; but still it was hardly 
affection that she felt for her ; or if it was, it was a 
dull and torpid kind of feeling, compared with the 
fond love and exulting pride which she took in 
Edward. When he came back for occasional holi- 


72 THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 

days, his mother’s face was radiant with happiness, 
and her manner toward him was even more caress- 
ing than he approved of. When Maggie saw him 
repel the hand that fain would have stroked his hair 
as in childish days, a longing came into her heart for 
some of these uncared-for tokens of her mother’s 
love. Otherwise she meekly sank back into her old 
secondary place, content to have her judgment 
slighted and her wishes unasked as long as he 
stayed. At times she was now beginning to disap- 
prove and regret some things in him ; his flashiness 
of manner jarred against her taste ; and a deeper, 
graven feeling was called out by his evident want of 
quick moral perception. “ Smart and clever,” or 
“ slow and dull,” took with him the place of “ right 
and wrong.” Little as he thought it, he was him- 
self narrow-minded and dull ; slow and blind to per- 
ceive the beauty and eternal wisdom of simple good- 
ness. 

Erminia and Maggie became great friends. Er- 
minia used to beg for Maggie, until she herself put 
a stop to the practice ; as she saw her mother yielded 
more frequently than was convenient, for the honor 
of having her daughter a visitor at Mr. Buxton’s, 
about which she could talk to her few acquaintances 
who persevered in calling at the cottage. Then Er- 
minia volunteered a visit of some days to Maggie, 
and Mrs. Browne’s pride was redoubled ; but she 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


73 


made so many preparations, and so much, fuss, and 
gave herself so much trouble, that she was positively 
ill during Erminia’s stay ; and Maggie felt that she 
must henceforward deny herself the pleasure of hav- 
ing her friend for a guest, as her mother could not 
be persuaded from attempting to provide things in 
the same abundance and style as that to which Er- 
minia was ' accustomed at home ; whereas, as Nancy 
shrewdly observed, the young lady did not know if 
she w'as eating jelly, or porridge, or whether the 
plates were common delf or the best China, so 
long as she was with her dear Miss Maggie. Spring 
went, and summer came. Frank had gone to and 
fro between Cambridge and Combehurst, drawn by 
motives of which he felt the force, but into which he 
did not care to examine. Edward had sold the prop- 
erty of Mr. Buxton ; and he, pleased with the pos- 
session of half the purchase money (the remainder of 
which was to be paid by instalments), and happy in 
the idea that his son came over so frequently to see 
Erminia. had amply rewarded the young attorney 
for his services. 

One summer’s day, as hot as day could be, Maggie 
had been busy all morning ; for the weather was so 
sultry that she would not allow either Nancy or her 
mother to exert themselves much. She had gone 
down with the old brown pitcher, coeval with her- 
self, to the spring for water ; and while it was trick 


74 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


ling, and making a tinkling music, she sat down on 
the ground. The air was so still that she heard the 
distant wood-pigeons cooing ; and round about her 
the bees were murmuring busily among the cluster- 
ing heath. From some little touch of sympathy with 
these low sounds of pleasant harmony, she began to 
try and hum some of Erminia’s airs. She never 
sang out loud, or put words to her songs ; but her 
voice was very sweet, and it was a great pleasure to 
herself to let it go into music. Just as her jug was 
filled, she was startled by Frank’s sudden appearance. 
She thought he was at Cambridge, and, from some 
cause or other, her face, usually so faint in color, be- 
came the most vivid scarlet. They were both too 
conscious to speak. Maggie stooped (murmuring 
some words of surprise) to take up her pitcher. 

“ Don’t go yet, Maggie,” said he, putting his hand 
on hers to stop her ; but, somehow, when that pur- 
pose was effected, he forgot to take it off again. “ I 
have come all the way from Cambridge to see you. 
I could not bear suspense any longer. I grew so 
impatient for certainty of some kind, that I went up 
to town last night, in order to feel myself on my way 
to you, even though I knew I could not be here a 
bit earlier to-day for doing so. Maggie — dear Mag- 
gie ! how you are trembling ! Have I frightened 
you? Nancy told me you were here; but it was 
very thoughtless to come so suddenly upon you.” 


TITK MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


75 


It was not the suddenness of his coining ; it was 
the suddenness of her own heart, which leaped up 
with the feelings called out by his words. She went 
very white, and sat down on the ground as before. 
But she rose again immediately, and stood, with 
drooping, averted head. He had dropped her hand, 
but now sought to take it again. 

“ Maggie, darling, may I speak ?” Her lips moved, 
he saw, but he could not hear. A pang of affright 
ran through him that, perhaps, she did not wish to 
listen. “May I speak to you?” he asked again, 
quite timidly. ,She tried to make her voice sound, 
but it would not; so she looked round. Her soft 
gray eyes were eloquent in that one glance. And, 
happier than his words, passionate and tender as 
they were, could tell, he spoke till her trembling was 
changed into bright flashing blushes, and even a shy 
smile hovered about her lips, and dimpled her cheeks. 

The water bubbled over the pitcher unheeded. At 
last she remembered all the work-a-day world. She 
lifted up the jug, and would have hurried home, but 
Frank decidedly took it from her. 

“ Henceforward,” said he, “ I have a right to carry 
your burdens.” So with one arm round her Waist 
and with the other carrying the water, they climbed 
the steep turfy slope. Near the top she wanted tc 
take it again. 


76 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


“ Mamma will not like it. Mamma will think it 
so strange.” 

‘‘Why, dearest, if I saw Nancy carrying it up this 
slope I would take it from her. It would be strange 
if a man did not carry it for any woman. But you 
must let me tell your mother of my right to help 
you. It is your dinner-time, is it not ? I may come 
in to dinner as one of the family, may not I, Maggie?” 

“ No,” she said softly. For she longed to be alone ; 
and she dreaded being overwhelmed by the expres- 
sion of her mother’s feelings, weak and agitated as 
she felt herself. “ Not to-day.” 

“ Not to-day !” said he, reproachfully. “ You are 
very hard upon me. Let me come to tea. If you 
will, I will leave you now. Let me come to early 
tea. I must speak to my father. He does not know 
I am here. I may come to tea. At what time is it ? 
Three o’clock. Oh, I know you drink tea at some 
strange early hour ; perhaps it is at two. I will take 
care to be in time.” 

“ Don’t come till five, please. I must tell mamma ; 
and I want some time to think. It does seem so like 
a dream. Do go, please.” 

“ Well ! if I must, I must. But I don’t feel as if 
I were in a dream, but in some real blessed heaven, 
so long as I see you.” 

At last he went. Nancy was awaiting Maggie, at 
the side-gate. 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


77 


“ Bless us and save us, bairn ! (vhat a time it has 
taken thee to get the water. Is the spring dry with 
the hot weather 

Maggie ran past her. All dinner-time she heard 
her mother’s voice in long-continued lamentation 
about something. She answered at random, and 
startled her mother by asserting that she thought 
‘4t” was very good; the said “it” being milk turned 
sour by thunder. Mrs. Browne spoke quite sharply, 
“No one is so particular as you, Maggie. I have 
known you drink water, day after day, for breakfast, 
when you were a little girl, because your cup of milk 
had a drowned fly in it ; and now you tell me you 
don’t care for this, and don’t mind that, just as if 
you could eat up all the things which are spoiled by 
the heat. I declare my head aches so, I shall go and 
lie down as soon as ever dinner is over. 

If this was her plan, Maggie thought she had no 
time to lose in making her confession. Frank would 
be here before her mother got up again to tea. But 
she dreaded speaking about her happiness ; it seemed 
as yet so cobweb-like, as if a touch would spoil its 
beauty. 

“ Mamma, just wait a minute. Just sit down in 
your chair while I tell you something. Please, dear 
mamma.” She took a stool, and sat at her mother’s 
feet ; and then she began to turn the wedding-ring 


78 THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 

on Mrs. Browne’s hand, looking down and never 
speaking, till the latter became impatient. 

“What is it you have got to say, child? Do make 
haste, for I want to go up-stairs.” 

With a great jerk of resolution, Maggie said — 

“ Mamma, Frank Buxton has asked me to marry 
him.” 

She hid her face in her mother’s lap for an in- 
stant ; and then she lifted it up, as brimful of the 
light of happiness as is the cup of a water-lily of the 
sun’s radiance. 

“ Maggie — you don’t say so,” said her mother, half 
incredulously. “ It can’t be, for he ’s at Cambridge, 
and it’s not post-day. What do you mean?” 

“ He came this morning, mother, when I was down 
at the well ; and we fixed that I was to speak to you ; 
and he asked if he might come again for tea.” 

“Dear! dear! and the milk all gone sour? We 
should have had milk of our own, if Edward had not 
persuaded me against buying another cow.” 

“ I don’t think Mr. Buxton will mind it much,” 
said Maggie, dimpling up, as she remembered, half 
unconsciously, how little he had seemed to care for 
anything but herself. 

“Why, what a thing it is for you!” said Mrs. 
Browne, quite roused up from her languor and her 
head-ache. “ Everybody said he was engaged to 
Miss Erminia. Are you quite sure you made no 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


T9 


mistake, child ? What did he say ? Young men are 
so fond of making fine speeches ; and young women 
are so silly in fancying they mean something. I 
once knew a girl wlio thought that a gentleman who 
sent her mother a present of a sucking-pig, did it as 
a delicate way of making her an offer. Tell me his 
exact words.” 

But Maggie blushed, and either would not or could 
not. So Mrs. Browne began again — 

‘‘Well, if you’re sure, you’re sure. I wonder 
how Jie brought his father round. So long as he and 
Erminia have been planned for each other ! That 
very first day we ever dined there after your father’s 
death, Mr. Buxton as good as told me all about it. 
I fancied they were only waiting till they were out 
of mourning.” 

All this was news to Maggie. She had never 
thought that either Erminia or Frank was particu- 
larly fond of the other ; still less had she had any 
idea of Mr. Buxton’s plans for them. Her mother’s 
surprise at her engagement jarred a little upon her 
too : it had become so natural, even in these last two 
hours, to feel that she belonged to him. But there 
were more discords to come. Mrs. Browne began 
again, half in soliloquy : 

“ I should think he would have foiy thousand 
a-year. He did not tell you, love, did he, if they had 
still that bad property in the canal, that his father 


80 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


complained about ? But he will have four thousand. 
Why, you’ll have your carriage, Maggie. Well! I 
hope Mr. Buxton has taken it kindly, because he ’ll 
have a deal to do with the settlements. I ’m sure I 
thought he was engaged to Erminia.” 

Ringing changes on these subjects all the after- 
noon, Mrs. Browne sat with Maggie. She occasion- 
ally wandered on to speak about Edward, and how 
favorably his future prospects would be advanced 
by the engagement. 

“ Let me see — there ’s the house in Combehurst : 
the rent of that would be a hundred and fifty a-year, 
but we ’ll not reckon that. But there ’s the quar- 
ries ” (she was reckoning upon her fingers in default 
of a slate, for which she had vainly searched), “ we ’ll 
call them two hundred a-year, for I don’t believe 
Mr. Buxton’s stories about their only bringing him 
in sevenpence; and there’s Newbridge, that’s cer- 
tainly thirteen hundred — where had I got to, 
Maggie ?” 

“ Dear mamma, do go and lie down for a little ; 
you look quite fiushed, ” said Maggie, softly. 

Was this the manner to view her betrothal with 
such a man as Frank ? Her mother’s remarks de- 
pressed her more than she could have thought it 
possible 5 the excitement of the morning was having 
its reaction, and she longed to go up to the solitude 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 81 

under tlie thorn -tree, where she had hoped to spend 
a quiet, thoughtful afternoon. 

Nancy came in to replace glasses and spoons in 
the cupboard. By some accident, the careful old 
servant broke one of the former. She looked up 
quickly at her mistress, who usually visited all 
such offences with no small portion of rebuke. 

“ Never mind, Nancy,” said Mrs. Browne. ‘‘ It ’s 
only an old tumbler ; and Maggie’s going to be mar- 
ried, and we must buy a new set for the wedding- 
dinner.” 

Nancy looked at both, bewildered ; at last a light 
dawned into her mind, and her face looked shrewdly 
and knowingly back at Mrs. Browne. Then she 
said, very quietly, 

“ I think I ’ll take the next pitcher to the well my- 
self, and try my luck. To think how sorry I was for 
Miss Maggie this morning ! ‘ Poor thing,’ says I to 
myself, ‘ to be kept all this time at that confounded 
well’ (for I ’ll not deny that I swear a bit to myself 
at times — it sweetens the blood), ‘and she so tired.’ 
I e’en thought I ’d go help her ; but I reckon she ’d 
some other help. May I take a guess at the young 
man ?” 

“Four thousand a-year ! Nancy;” said Mrs. 
Browne, exultingly. 

“ And a blithe look, and a warm, kind heart — 
and a free step — and a noble way with him to rich 
6 


82 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


and poor — aye, aye, I know the name. No need to 
alter all my neat M. B’s., done in turkey-red cotton. 
Well, well ! every one’s turn comes sometime, but 
mine ’s rather long a-coming.” 

The faithful old servant came up to Maggie, and 
put her hand caressingly on her shoulder. Maggie 
threw her arms round her* neck, and kissed the 
brown, withered face. 

“God bless thee, bairn,” said Nancy, solemnly. 
It brought the low music of peace back into the 
still recesses of Maggie’s heart. She began to look 
out for her lover; half-hidden behind the muslin 
window curtain, which waved gently to and fro in 
the afternoon breezes. She heard a firm, buoyant 
step, and had only time to catch one glimpse of his 
face, before moving away. But that one glance 
made her think that the hours which had elapsed 
since she saw him had not been serene to him any 
more than to her. 

When he entered the parlor, his face was glad 
and bright. He went up in a frank, rejoicing way 
to Mrs. Browne ; who was evidently rather puzzled 
how to receive him — whether as Maggie’s betrothed, 
or as the son of the greatest man of her acquaint- 
ance. 

“ I am sure, sir,” said she, “ we are all very much 
obliged to you for the honor you have done our 
family !” 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


83 


He looked rather perplexed as to the nature of 
the honor which he had conferred without knowing 
it; but as the light dawned upon him, he made 
answer in a frank, merry way, which was yet full of 
respect for his future mother-in-law — 

“ And I am sure I am truly grateful for the 
honor one of your family has done me.” 

When Nancy brought in tea she was dressed in 
her fine-weather Sunday gown ; the first time it had 
ever been worn out of church, and the walk to and 
fro. 

After tea, Frank asked Maggie if she would walk 
out with him ; and accordingly they climbed the Fell- 
Lane and went out upon the moors, which seemed 
vast and boundless as their love. 

“ Have you told your father ?” asked Maggie ; a 
dim anxiety lurking in her heart. 

“ Yes,” said Frank. He did not go on ; and she 
feared to ask, although she longed to know, how 
Mr. Buxton had received the -intelligence. 

“ What did he say ?” at length she inquired. 

“ Oh ! it was evidently a new idea to him that I 
was attached to you ; and he does not take up a new 
idea speedily. He has had some notion, it seems, 
that Erminia and I were to make a match of it ; 
but she and I agreed, when we talked it over, that 
we should never have fallen in love with each other 
if there had not been another human being in the 


84 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


world. Erminia is a little sensible creature, and 
says she does not wonder at any man falling in love 
with you. Nay, Maggie, don’t hang your head so 
down ; let me have a glimpse of your face.” 

“ I am sorry your father does not like it,” said 
Maggie, sorrowfully. 

“ So am I. But we must give him time to get 
reconciled. Never fear but he will like it in the 
long run ; he has too much good taste and good feel- 
ing. He must like you.” 

Frank did not choose to tell even Maggie how 
violently his father had set himself against their 
engagement. He was surprised and annoyed at 
drst to find how decidedly his father was possessed 
with the idea that he was to marry his cousin, and 
that she, at any rate, was attached to him, whatever 
his feelings might be toward her ; but after he had 
gone frankly to Erminia and told her all, he found 
that she was as ignorant of her uncle’s plans for her 
as he had been ; and almost as glad at any event 
which should frustrate them. 

Indeed she came to the moorland cottage on the 
following day, after Frank had returned to Cam- 
bridge. She had left her horse in charge of the 
groom, near the fir-trees on the heights, and came 
running down the slope in her habit. Maggie went 
out to meet her, with just a little wonder at her 
heart if what Frank had said could possibly be true j 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


85 


and that Erminia, living in the house with him, 
could have remained indifferent to him. Erminia 
threw her arms round her neck, and they sat down 
together on the court-steps. 

“ I durst not ride down that hill ; and J em is 
holding my horse, so I may not stay very long ; now 
begin, Maggie, at' once, and go into a rhapsody about 
Frank. Is not he a charming fellow ? Oh ! I am 
so glad. Now don’t sit smiling and blushing there 
to yourself ; but tell me a great deal about it. I 
have so wanted to know somebody that was in love, 
that I might hear what it was like ; and the minute 
I could, I came off here. Frank is only just gone. 
He has had another long talk with my uncle, since 
he came back from you this morning; but I am 
afraid he has not made much way yet.” 

Maggie sighed. “ I don’t wonder at his not 
thinking me good enough for Frank.” 

“ No ! the difficulty would be to find any one he 
did think fit for his paragon of a son.” 

“ He thought you were, dearest Erminia.” 

“ So Frank has told you that, has he ? I suppose 
we shall have no more family secrets now,” said 
Erminia, laughing. “ But I can assure you I had a 
strong rival in lady Adela Castlemayne, the Duke 
of Wight’s daughter; she was the most beautiful 
lady my uncle had ever seen (he only saw her in the 
Grand Stand at Woodchester races, and never spoke 


86 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


a word to her in his life). And if she would have 
had Frank, my uncle would still have been dissatis- 
fied as long as the Princess Victoria was unmarried ; 
none would have been good enough while a better 
remained. But Maggie,” said she, smiling up into 
her friend’s face, “ I think it would have made you 
laugh, for all you look as if a kiss'would shake the 
tears out of your eyes, if you could have seen my 
uncle’s manner to me all day. He will have it that 
I am suffering from an unrequited attachment ; so 
he watched me and watched me over breakfast ; and 
^t last, when I had eaten a whole nest-full of eggs, 
and I don’t know how many pieces of to^st, he rang 
the bell and asked for some potted charr. I was 
quite unconscious that it was for me, and I did not 
want it when it came ; so he sighed in a most melan- 
choly manner, and said, ‘ My poor Erminia !’ If 
Frank had not been there, and looking dreadfully 
miserable, I am sure I should have laughed out.” 

“ Did Frank look miserable ?” said Maggie, anx- 
iously. 

“ There now ! you don’t care for anything but the 
mention of his name.” 

“But did he look unhappy?” persisted Maggie. 

“ I can’t say he looked happy, dear Mousey ; but 
it was quite different when he came back from 
seeing you. You know you always had the art of 
stilling any person’s trouble. You and my aunt 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 87 

Buxton are the only two I ever knew with that 
gift.” 

“ I am so sorry he has any trouble to be stilled,” 
said Maggie. 

. “And I think it will do him a world of good. 
Think how successful his life has been ! the honors 
he got at Eton ! his picture taken, and I don’t 
know what ! and at Cambridge just the same way 
of going on. He would be insufferably imperious 
in a few years, if he did not meet with a few 
crosses.” 

“ Imperious ! — oh Erminia, how can you say so ?” 

“ Because it ’s the truth. He happens to have 
very good dispositions; and therefore his strong will 
is not either disagreeable, or offensive ; but once let 
him become possessed by a wrong wish, and you 
would then see how vehement and imperious he 
would be. Depend upon it, my uncle’s resistance is 
a capital thing for him. As dear sweet Aunt Bux- 
ton would have said, ‘ There is a holy purpose in it ;’ 
and as Aunt Buxton would not have said, but as I, 
a ‘ fool, rush in where angels fear to tread,’ I decide 
ihat the purpose is to teach Master Frank patience 
ind submission.” 

“ Erminia — how could you help” — and there 
Maggie stopped. 

“ I know what you mean ; how could I help falling 
in love with him ? I think he has not mystery and 


88 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


reserve enough for me. I should like a man with 
some deep, impenetrable darkness around him ; some- 
thing one could always keep wondering about. Be- 
sides, think what clashing of wills there would have 
been ! My uncle was very short-sighted in his plan.; 
but I don’t think he thought so much about the fit- 
ness of our characters and ways, as the fitness of our 
fortunes !” 

“For shame, Erminia ! No one cares less for 
money than Mr. Buxton !” 

“ There ’s a good little daughter-in-law elect ! But 
seriously, I do think he is beginning to care for 
money ; not in the least for himself, but as a means 
of aggrandizement for Frank. I have observed, 
since I came home at Christmas, a growing anxiety 
to make the most of his property ; a thing he never 
cared about before. • I don’t think he is aware of it 
himself ; but from one or two little things I have 
noticed, I should not wonder if he ends in being 
avaricious in his old age.” Erminia sighed. 

Maggie had almost a sympathy with the father, 
who sought what he imagined to be for the good of 
his son, and that son, Frank. Although she was as 
convinced as Erminia, that money could not really 
help any one to happiness, she could not at the 
instant resist saying — 

“ Oh ! how I wish I had a fortune ! 1 should so 
like to give it all to him.” 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


89 


“Now Maggie! don’t be silly I I never heard 
you wish for anything different from what was, be- 
fore, so I shall take this opportunity of lecturing 
you on your folly. No I I won’t either, for you 
look sadly tired with all your agitation ; and besides 
I must go, or Jem will be wondering what has 
become of me. Dearest cousin-in-law, I shall come 
very often to see you ; and perhaps I shall give you 
my lecture yet.” 


OHAPTER VI. 


It was true of Mr. Buxton, as well as of his son, 
that he had the seeds of imperiousness in him. 
His life had not been such as to call them out into 
view. With more wealth than he required ; with a 
gentle wife, who if she ruled him never showed it, or 
was conscious of the fact herself ; looked up to by 
his neighbors, a simple affectionate set of people, 
whose fathers had lived near his father and grand- 
father in the same kindly relation, receiving benefits 
cordially given, and requiting them with good will 
and respectful attention : such had been the circum- 
stances surrounding him; and until his son grew 
out of childhood, there had not seemed a wish which 
he had it not in his power to gratify as soon as form- 
ed. Again, when Frank was at school and at college, 
all went on prosperously ; he gained honors enough 
to satisfy a far more ambitious father. Indeed, it 
was the honors he gained that stimulated his father’s 
ambition. He received letters from tutors, and head- 
masters, prophesying that, if Frank chose, he might 
rise to the “ highest honors in church or state 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


91 


and the idea thus suggested, vague as it was, remain- 
ed, and filled Mr. Buxton’s mind; and, for the 
first time in his life, made him wish that his own 
career had been such as would have led him to form 
connections among the great and powerful. But, as 
it was, his shyness and gene^ from being unaccustomed 
to society, had made him averse to Frank’s occasional 
requests that he might bring such and such a school- 
fellow, or college-chum, home on a visit. Now he 
regretted this, on account of the want of those con- 
nections which* might thus have been formed; and, 
in his visions, he turned to marriage as the best way 
of remedying this. Erminia was right in saying 
that her uncle had thought of Lady Adela Castle- 
mayne for an instant ; though how the little witch 
had found it out I cannot say, as the idea had been 
dismissed immediately from his mind. He was 
wise enough to see its utter vanity, as long as his 
son remained undistinguished. But his hope was 
this. If Frank married Erminia, their united 
property (she being her father’s heiress) would jus- 
tify him in standing for the shire ; or if he could 
marry the daughter of some leading personage in the 
county, it might lead to the same step; and thus at 
once he would obtain a position in parliament, where 
his great talents would have scope and verge enough. 
Of these two visions, the favorite one (for his sister’s 
sake) was that of marriage with Erminia. 


92 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


And, in the midst of all this, fell, like a bomb- 
shell, the intelligence of his engagement with Mag- 
gie Browne ; a good sweet little girl enough, but 
without fortune or connection — without, as far as 
Mr. Buxton knew, the least power, or capability, or 
spirit, with which to help Frank on in his career to 
eminence in the land ! He resolved to consider it 
as a boyish fancy, easily to be suppressed ; and pooh- 
poohed it down, to Frank, accordingly. He remarked 
his son’s set lips, and quiet determined brow, al- 
though he never spoke in a more respectful tone, 
than while thus steadily opposing his father. If he 
had shown more violence of manner, he would have 
irritated him less ; but, as it was, it was the most 
miserable interview that had ever taken place be- 
tween the father and son. 

Mr. Buxton tried to calm himself down with be- 
lieving that Frank would change his mind, if he saw 
more of the world ; but, somehow, he had a prophe- 
sying distrust of this idea internally. The worst 
was, there was no fault to be found with Maggie 
herself, although she might want the accomplish- 
ments he desired to see in his son’s wife. Her con- 
nections, too, were so perfectly respectable (though 
humble enough in comparison with Mr. Buxton’s 
soaring wishes), that there was nothing to be objected 
to on that score ; her position was the great offence. 
In proportion to his want of any reason but this one, 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


93 


for disapproving of the engagement, was his annoy- 
ance under it. He assumed a reserve toward 
Frank ; which was so unusual a restraint upon his 
open, genial disposition, that it seemed to make him 
irritable toward all others in contact with him, ex- 
cepting Erminia. He found it difficult to behave 
rightly to Maggie. Like all habitually cordial per- 
sons, he went into the opposite extreme, whep ho 
wanted to show a little coolness. However angry 
he might be with the events of which she was the 
cause, she was too innocent and meek to justify him 
in being more than cool ; but his awkwardness was 
so great, that many a man of the world has met his 
greatest enemy, each knowing the other’s hatred, 
with less freezing distance of manner than Mr. Bux- 
ton’s to Maggie. While she went simply on in her 
own path, loving him the more through all, for old 
kindness’ sake, and because he was Frank’s father, 
he shunned meeting her with such evident and pain- 
ful anxiety, ti^at at last she tried to spare him the 
encounter, and hurried out of church, or lingered 
behind all, in order to avoid the only chance they 
now had of being forced to speak ; for she no longer 
went to the dear house in Combehurst, though 
Erminia came to see her more than ever. 

Mrs. Browne was perplexed and annoyed beyond 
measure. She upbraided Mr. Buxton to every one 
but Maggie. To her she said — “ Any one in their 


94 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


senses might have foreseen what had happened, and 
would have thought well about it, before they went 
and fell in love with a young man of such expecta- 
tions as Mr. Frank Buxton.” 

In the middle of all this dismay, Edward came 
over from Woodchester for a day or two. He had 
been told of the engagement, in a letter from Mag- 
gie herself ; but it was too sacred a subject for her 
to enlarge upon to him ; and Mrs. Browne was no 
letter writer. So this was his first greeting to Mag- 
gie ; after kissing her — 

“Well, Sancho, you’ve done famously for your- 
self As soon as I got your letter I said to Harry 
Bish — ‘ Still waters run deep ; here ’s my little sister 
Maggie, as quiet a creature as ever lived, has man- 
aged to catch young Buxton, who has five thousand 
a-year if he ’s a penny.’ Don’t go so red, Maggie. 
Harry was sure to hear of it soon from some one, 
and I see no use in keeping it secret, for it gives con- 
sequence to us all.” 

“ Mr. Buxton is quite put out about it,” said Mrs. 
Brown, querulously ; “ and I ’m sure he need not be, 
for he ’s enough of money, if that ’s what he wants ; 
and Maggie’s father was a clergyman, and I ’ve seen 
‘ yeoman,’ with my own eyes, on old Mr. Buxton’s 
(Mr. Lawrence’s father’s) carts ; and a clergyman is 
above a yeoman any day. But if Maggie had had 
any thought for other people, she ’d never have gone 


THK MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


95 


and engaged herself, when she might have been sure 
it would give offence. We are never asked down to 
dinner now. I Ve never broken bread there since 
last Christmas.” 

“ Whew !” said Edward to this. It was a dis- 
appointed whistle ; but he soon cheered up. “ I 
thought I could have lent a hand in screwing old 
Buxton up about the settlements ; but I see it ’s not 
come to that yet. Still I ’ll go and see the old gen- 
tleman. I ’m a bit of a favorite of his, and I ’ve no 
doubt I can turn him round.” 

“ Pray, Edward, don’t go,” said Maggie. “ Frank 
and I are content to wait ; and I ’m sure we would 
rather not have any one speak to Mr. Buxton, upon 
a subject which evidently gives him so much pain ; 
please, Edward, don’t !” 

“ Well, well. Only I must go about this property 
of his. Besides, I don’t mean to get into disgrace ; 
so I shan’t seem to know anything about it, if it 
would make him angry. I want to keep on good 
terms, because of the agency. So, perhaps, I shall 
shake my head, and think it great presumption in 
you, Maggie, to have thought of becoming his daugh- 
ter-in-law. If I can do you no good, I may as well 
do myself some.” 

“ I hope you won’t mention me at all,” she re- 
plied. 

One comfort (and almost the only one arising 


96 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


from Edward’s visit) was, that she could now often 
be spared to go up to the thorn-tree, and calm down 
her anxiety, and bring all discords into peace, under 
the sweet influences of nature. Mrs. Buxton had 
tried to teach her the force of the lovely truth, that 
the “ melodies of the everlasting chime” may abide 
in the hearts of those who ply their daily task in 
towns, and crowded populous places ; and that soli- 
tude is not needed by the faithful for them to feel 
the immediate presence of God ; nor utter stillness 
of human sound necessary, before they can hear the 
music of His angels’ footsteps ; but, as yet, her soul 
was a young disciple ; and she felt it easier to speak 
to Him, and come to Him for help, sitting lonely, 
with wild moors swelling and darkening around her, 
and not a creature in sight but the white specks of 
distant sheep, and the birds that shun the haunts of 
men, floating in the still mid-air. 

She sometimes longed to go to Mr. Buxton and 
tell him how much she could sympathize with him, 
if his dislike to her engagement arose from his 
thinking her unworthy of his son. Frank’s charac- 
ter seemed to her grand in its promise. With vehe- 
ment impulses and natural gifts, craving worthy 
employment, his will sat supreme over all, like a 
young emperor calmly seated on his throne, whose 
fiery generals and wise counsellors stand alike ready 
to obey him. But if marriage were to be made by 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 97 

Jue measurement and balance of character, and if 
others, with their scales, were to be the judges, what 
would become of all the beautiful services rendered 
by the loyalty of true love ? Where would be the 
raising up of the weak -by the strong 1 or the patient 
endurance ? or the gracious trust of her — 

“ Whose faith is fixt and cannot move ; 

She darkly feels him great and wise, 

She dwells on him with faithful eyes, 

‘ I cannot understand : I love.’ ” 

Edward’s manners and conduct caused her more 
real anxiety than anything else. Indeed, no other 
thoughtfulness could be called anxiety compared to 
this. His faults, she could not but perceive, were 
strengthening with his strength, and growing with 
his growth. She could not help wondering whence 
. he obtained the money to pay for his dress, which she 
thought was of a very expensive kind. She heard 
him also incidentally allude to “ runs up to town,” of 
which, at the time, neither she nor her mother had 
been made aware. He seemed confused when she 
questioned him about these, although he tried to 
laugh it off ; and asked her how she, a country girl, 
cooped up among one set of people, could have any 
idea of the life it was necessary for a man to lead 
who “ had any hope of getting on in the world.” He 
must have acquaintances and connections, and see 
something of life, and make an appearance. She was 
7 


98 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


silenced, but not satisfied. Nor was she at ease with 
regard to his health. He looked ill, and worn ; and, 
when he was not rattling and laughing, his face fell 
into a shape of anxiety and uneasiness, which was 
new to her in it. He reminded her painfully of an 
old German engraving she had seen in Mrs. Bux- 
ton’s portfolio, called, “ Pleasure digging a Grave 
Pleasure being represented by a ghastly figure of 
a young man, eagerly industrious over his dismal 
work. 

A few days after he went away, Nancy came to 
her in her bed-room. 

“ Miss Maggie,” said she, “ may I just speak a 
word?” But when the permission was given, she 
hesitated. 

“ It ’s none of my business, to be sure,” said she at 
last : “ only, you see, I ’ve lived with your mother 
ever since she was married ; and I care a deal for 
both you and Master Edward. And I think he 
drains Missus of her money ; and it makes me not 
easy in my mind. You did not know of it, but he 
bad his father’s old watch when he was over last 
time but one ; I thought he was of an age to have a 
watch, and that it was all natural. But, I reckon 
he’s sold it, and got that gimcrack one instead. 
That ’s perhaps natural too. Young folks like young 
fashions. But, this time, I think he has taken away 
your mother’s watch ; at least, I ’ve ne^roj# seen it 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


99 


since he went. And this morning she spoke to me 
about my wages. I ’m sure I ’ve never asked for 
them, nor troubled her ; but I ’ll own it ’s now near 
on to twelve months since she paid me ; and she was 
as regular as clock-work till then. Now, Miss Maggie 
don’t look so sorry, or I shall wish I had never spok- 
en. Poor Missus seemed sadly put about, and said 
something as I did not try to hear ; for I was so 
vexed she should think I needed apologies, and them 
sort of things. I ’d rather live with you without 
wages than have her look so shame-faced as she did 
this morning. I don’t want a bit for money, my 
dear ; I Ve a deal in the Bank. But I ’m afeard 
Master Edward is spending too much, and pinching 
Missus.” 

Maggie was very sorry indeed. Her mother had 
never told her anything of all this, so it was evi 
dently a painful subject to her ; and Maggie deter- 
mined (after lying awake half the night) that she 
would write to Edward, and remonstrate with him ; 
and that in every personal and household expense, 
she would be, more than ever, rigidly economical. 

The full, free, natural intercourse between her 
lover and herself, could not fail to be checked by Mr. 
Buxton’s aversion to the engagement. Frank came 
over for some time in the early autumn. He had left 
Cambridge, and intended to enter himself at the 
Temple as soon as the vacation was ended. He had 


100 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


not been very long at home before Maggie was made 
aware, partly through Erminia, who had no notion of 
discreet silence on any point, and partly by her own 
observation, of the increasing estrangement between 
father and son. Mr. Buxton was reserved with 
Frank for the first time in his life ; and Frank was 
depressed and annoyed at his father’s obstinate repe- 
tition of the same sentence, in answer to all his ar- 
guments in favor of his engagement — arguments 
which were overwhelming to himself, and which 
it required an effort of patience on his part to go 
over and recapitulate, so obvious was the conclu- 
sion; and then to have the same answer forever, 
the same words even — 

“ Frank ! it ’s no use talking. I don’t approve of 
the engagement ; and never shall.” 

He would snatch up his hat, and hurry off to 
Maggie to be soothed. His father knew where ho 
was gone without being told; and was jealous of 
her influence over the son who had long been his 
first and paramount object in life. 

He needed not have been jealous. However 
angry and indignant Frank was when he went up 
to the moorland cottage, Maggie almost persuaded 
him, before half an hour had elapsed, that his father 
was but unreasonable from his extreme affection. 
Still she saw that such frequent differences would 
weaken the bond between father and son ; and, ac- 

■.V ’ 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


101 


cordingly, she urged Frank to accept an invitation 
into Scotland. 

“ You told me,” said she, “ that Mr. Buxton will 
have it, it is hut a boy’s attachment ; and that when 
you have seen other people, you will change your 
mind ; now do try how far you can stand the effects 
of absence.” She said it playfully, but he was in a 
humor to be vexed. 

“ What nonsense, Maggie ! You don’t care for 
all this delay yourself ; and you take up my father’s 
bad reasons as if you believed them.” 

“ I don’t believe them ; but still they may be 
true.” 

“ How should you like it, Maggie, if I urged you 
to go about and see something of society, and try 
if you could not find some one you liked better? 
It is more probable in your case than in mine ; for 
you have never been from home, and I have been 
half over Europe.” 

“ You are very much afraid, are not you, Frank?” 
said she, her face bright with blushes, and her gray 
eyes smiling up at him. “ I have a great idea that 
if I could see that Harry Bish that Edward is 
always talking about, I should be charmed. He 
must wear such beautiful waistcoats ! Don’t you 
think I had better see him before our engagement 
is quite, quite final ?” 

But Frank would not smile. In fact, like all 


102 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


angry persons, lie found fresh matter for offence in 
every sentence. She did not consider the engage- 
ment as quite final; thus he chose to understand 
her playful speech. He would not answer. She 
spoke again : 

“ Dear Frank, you are not angry with me, are 
you ? It is nonsense to think that we are to go 
about the worl^, picking and choosing men and 
women, as if they were fruit, and we were to gather 
the best ; as if there was not something in our own 
hearts which, if we listen to it conscientiously, will 
tell us at once when we have met the one of all 
others. There now, am I sensible? I suppose I 
am, for your grim features are relaxing into a smile. 
That’s right. But now listen to this. I think 
your father would come round sooner, if he were 
not irritated every day by the knowledge of your 
visits to me. If you went away, he would know 
that we should write to each other, yet he would 
forget the exact time when ; but now he knows as 
well as I do where you are when you are up here ; 
and I fancy, from what Erminia says, it makes him 
angry the whole time you are away.” 

Frank was silent. At last he said : “ It is rather 
provoking to be obliged to acknowledge that there 
is some truth in what you say. But even if I 
would, I am not sure that I could go. My father 
does not speak to me about his affairs, as he used to 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


103 


do ; SO I was rather surprised yesterday to hear him 
say to Erminia (though I ’m sure he meant the in- 
formation for me), that he had engaged an agent.” 

“ Then there will be the less occasion for you to 
be at home. He won’t want your help in his ac- 
counts.” 

“ I ’ve given him little enough of that. I have 
long wanted him to have somebody to look after his 
affairs. They are very complicated, and he is very 
careless. But I believe my signature will be wanted 
for some new leases ; at least he told me so.” 

“ That need not take you long,” said Maggie. 

‘•Not the mere signing. But I want to know 
something more about the property, and the pro- 
posed tenants. I believe this Mr. Henry that my 
father has engaged, is a very hard sort of man. 
He is what is called scrupulously honest and honor- 
able ; but I fear a little too much inclined to drive 
hard bargains for his client. Now I want to be 
convinced to the contrary, if I can, before I leave 
my father in his hands. So, you cruel judge, you 
won’t transport me yet, will you ?” 

“No,” said Maggie, overjoyed at her own deci- 
sion, and blushing her delight that her reason was 
convinced it was right for Frank to stay a little 
longer. 

The next day’s post brought her a letter from 
Edward. There was not a word in it about her in- 


104 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


quiry or remonstrance ; it might never have been 
written, or never received ; but a few hurried anx- 
ious lines, asking her to write by return of post, 
and say if it was really true that Mr. Buxton had 
engaged an agent. It ’s a confounded shabby 
trick if he has, after what he said to me long ago. 
I cannot tell you how much I depend on your com- 
plying with my request. Once more, write directly. 
If Nancy cannot take the letter to the post, run 
down to Combehurst with it yourself I must have 
an answer to-morrow, and every particular as to 
who — when to be appointed, &c. But I can’t be- 
lieve the report to be true.” 

Maggie asked Frank if she might name what he 
had told her the day before to her brother. He 
said — 

“ Oh, yes, certainly, if he cares to know. Of 
course, you will not say anything about my own 
opinion of Mr. Henry. He is coming to-morrow, 
and I shall be able to judge how far I am right.” 


CHAPTEE VIL 


The next day Mr. Henry came. He was a quiet, 
stern-looking man, of considerable intelligence and 
refinement, and so much taste for music as to charm 
Erminia, who had rather dreaded his visit. But all 
the amenities of life were put aside when he entered 
Mr. Buxton’s sanctum — his “office,” as he called 
the room where he received his tenants and business 
people. Frank thought Mr. Henry was scarce com- 
monly civil in the open evidence of his surprise and 
contempt for the habits, of which the disorderly 
books and ledgers were but too visible signs. Mr. 
Buxton himself felt more like a school-boy, bringing 
up an imperfect lesson, than he had ever done since 
he was thirteen. 

“ The only wonder, my good sir, is that you have 
any property left ; that you have not been cheated 
out of every farthing.” 

“I’ll answer for it,” said Mr. Buxton, in reply, 
“ that you ’ll not find any cheating has been going on. 


lOG THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 

They dared not, sir j they know I should make an 
example of the first rogue I found out.” 

Mr. Henry lifted up his eyebrows, but did not 
speak. 

“ Besides, sir, most of these men have lived for 
generations under the Buxtons. I ’d give you my 
life, they would not eheat me.” 

Mr. Henry eoldly said — 

“ I imagine a close examination of these books by 
some accountant will be the best proof of the honesty 
of these said tenants. If you will allow me, I will 
write to a clever fellow I know, and desire him tc 
come down and try and regulate this mass of papers.” 

“ Anything — anything you like,” said Mr. Buxton, 
only too glad to escape from the lawyer’s cold, con- 
temptuous way of treating the subject. 

The accountant came ; and he and Mr. Henry 
were deeply engaged in the office for several days. 
Mr. Buxton was bewildered by the questions they 
asked him. Mr. Henry examined him in the worry 
ing way in which an unwilling witness is made to give 
evidence. Many a time and oft did he heartily wish 
he had gone on in the old course to the end of hia 
life, instead of putting himself into an agent’s hands ; 
but he comforted himself by thinking that, at any 
rate, they would be convinced he had never allowed 
himself to be cheated or imposed upon, although ho 
did not make any parade of exactitude. 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


107 


What was his dismay when, one morning, Mr. 
Henry sent to request his presence, and, with a cold, 
clear voice, read aloud an admirably drawn up state- 
ment, informing the poor landlord of the defalcations, 
nay more, the impositions of those whom he had 
trusted. If he had been alone, he would have burst 
into tears, to find how his confidence had been abused. 
But as it was, he became passionately angry. 

“ I ’ll prosecute them, sir. Not a man shall escape. 
I ’ll make them pay back every farthing, I will. And 
damages, too. Crayston, did you say, sir? Was that 
one of the names ? Why, that is the very Crayston 
who was bailiff under my father for years. The 
scoundrel ! And I set him up in my best farm 
when he married. And he’s been swindling me, 
has he ?” 

Mr. Henry ran over the items of the account — 
“421/. 135. 4fc/. Part of this I fear we cannot 
recover ” — 

He was going on, but Mr. Buxton broke in : “ But 
I will recover it. I ’ll have every farthing of it. I ’ll 
go to law with the viper. I don’t care for money, but 
I hate ingratitude.” 

“ If you like, I will take counsel’s opinion on the 
case,” said Mr. Henry, coolly. 

“ Take anything you please, sir. Why, this Cray- 
ston was the first man that set me on a horse — and 
to think of his cheating me !” 


108 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


A few days after this conversation. Frank came 
on his usual visit to Maggie. 

“ Can you come up to the thorn-tree, dearest 
said he. “ It is a lovely day, and I want the solace 
of a quiet hour’s talk with you.” 

So they went, and sat in silence some time, look- 
ing at the calm and still blue air about the summits 
of the hills, where never tumult of the world came to 
disturb the peace, and the quiet of whose heights was 
never broken by the loud passionate cries of men. 

“ I am glad you like my thorn-tree,” said Maggie. 

I like the view from it. The thought of the soli- 
tude which must be among the hollows of those hills 
pleases me particularly to-day. Oh, Maggie ! it is 
one of the times when I get depressed about men 
and the world. We have had such sorrow, and such 
revelations, and remorse, and passion at home to-day. 
Crayston (my father’s old tenant) has come over. It 
seems — I am afraid there is no doubt of it — he has 
been peculating to a large amount. My father has 
been too careless, and has placed his dependents in 
great temptation ; and Crayston — ^he is an old man, 
with a large extravagant family — has yielded. He 
has been served with notice of my father’s intention 
to prosecute him ; and came over to confess all, and 
ask for forgiveness, and time to pay back what he 
could. A month ago, my father would have listened 
to him, I think ; but now, he is stung by Mr. Henry’s 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


109 


sayings, and gave way to a furious passion. It has 
been a most distressing morning. The worst side of 
everybody seems to have come out. Even Crayston, 
with all his penitence and appearance of candor, had 
to be questioned closely by Mr. Henry before he 
would tell the whole truth. Good God ! that money 
should have such power to corrupt men. It was all 
for money, and money’s worth, that this degradation 
has taken place. As fOr Mr. Henry, to save his 
client money, and to protect money, he does not 
care — he does not even perceive — how he induces 
deterioration of character. He has been encouraging 
my father in measures which I cannot call anything 
but vindictive. Crayston is to be made an example 
of, they say. As if my father had not half the sin on 
his own head ! As if he had rightly discharged his 
duties as a rich man ! Money was as dross to him ; 
but he ought to have remembered how it might be 
as life itself to many, and be craved after, and 
coveted, till the black longing got the better of prin- 
ciple, as it has done with this poor Crayston. They 
say the man was once so truthful, and now his self- 
respect is gone ; and he has evidently lost the very 
nature of truth. I dread riches. I dread the responsi- 
bility of them. At any rate, I wish I had begun life 
as a poor boy, and worked my way up to competence 
Then I could understand and remember the tempta 
tions of poverty. I am afraid of my own heart be 


no 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


coming hardened as my father’s is. You have no 
notion of his passionate severity to-day, Maggie ! It 
was quite a new thing even to me !” 

“ It will only be for a short time,” said she. “ He 
must be much grieved about this man.” 

If I thought I could ever grow as hard and in- 
different to the abject entreaties of a criminal as my 
father has be6n this morning — one whom he has 
helped to make, too — I would go off to Australia at 
once. Indeed, Maggie, I think it would be the best 
thing we could do. My heart aches about the mys- 
terious corruptions and evils of an old state of society 
such as we have in England. — What* do you say, 
Maggie ? Would you go ?” 

She was silent — thinking. 

“ I would go with you directly, if it were right,” • 
said she, at last. “ But would it be ? I think it 
would be rather cowardly. I feel what you say ; but 
don’t you think it would be braver to stay, and en- 
dure much depression and anxiety of mind, for the 
sake of the good those always can do who see evils 
clearly. I am speaking all this time as if neither you 
nor I had any home duties, but were free to do as 
we liked.” 

“ What can you or I do ? We are less than drops 
in the ocean, as far as our influence can go to re- 
model a nation ?” 

“ As for that,” said Maggie, laughing, “ I can’t re- 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


Ill 


model Nancy’s old-fashioned ways; so I’ve never 
yet planned how to remodel a nation.” 

‘‘ Then what did you mean by the good those 
always can do who see evils clearly ? The evils I 
see are those of a nation whose god is money.” 

That is just because you have come away from a 
distressing scene. To-morrow you will hear or read 
of some heroic action meeting with a nation’s sym- 
pathy, and you will rejoice and be proud of your 
country.” 

“ Still I shall see the evils of her complex state of 
society keenly ; and where is the good I can do ?” 

“ Oh ! I can’t tell in a minute. But cannot you 
bravely face these evils, and learn their nature and 
causes ; and then has God given you no powers to 
apply to the discovery of their remedy? Dear Frank, 
think ! It may be very little you can do — and you 
may never see the effect of it, any more than the 
widow saw the world-wide effect of her mite. Then 
if all the good and thoughtful men run away from 
us to some new country, what are we to do with our 
poor dear Old England ?” 

“ Oh, you must run away with the good, thoughtful 
men — (I mean to consider that as a compliment tc 
myself, Maggie !) Will you let me wish I had been 
born poor, if I am to stay in England ? I should not 
then be liable to this fault into which I see the ricli 
men fall, of forgetting the trials of the poor.” 


112 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE.. 


“ I am not sure whether, if you had been poor, you 
mighr not have fallen into an exactly parallel fault, 
and forgotten the trials of the rich. It is so difficult 
to understand the errors into which their position 
makes all men liable to fall. Do you remember a 
story in ‘ Evenings at Home,’ called the Transmigra- 
tions of Indra? Well ! when I was a child, I used 
to wish I might be transmigrated (is that the right 
word?) into an American slave-owner for a little 
while, just that I might understand how he must 
suffer, and be sorely puzzled, and pray and long to 
be freed from his odious wealth, till at last he grew 
hardened to its nature ; — and since then, I have 
wished to be the Emperor of Russia, for the same 
reason. Ah ! you may laugh ; but that is only 
because I have not explained myself properly.” 

“ I was only smiling to think how ambitious any 
one might suppose you were who did not know you.” 

“ I don’t see any ambition in it — I don’t think of 
the station — I only want sorely to see the ‘ What ’s 
resisted ’ of Burns, in order that I may have more 
charity for those who seem to me to have been the 
cause of such infinite woe and misery.” 

“ ‘ What ’s done we partly may compute ; 

But know not what’s resisted,’ ” 

repeated Frank musingly. After some time he 
began again : 

“ But, Maggie, I don’t give up this wish of mine 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


113 


to go to Australia — Canada, if you like it better — 
anywhere where there is a newer and purer state of 
society.” 

“ The great objection seems to be your duty, as an 
only child, to your father. It is different to the case 
'of one out of a large family.” 

“ I wish I were one in twenty, then I might marry 
where I liked to-morrow.” 

“ It would take two people’s consent to such a 
rapid measure,” said Maggie, laughing. “ But now 
I am going to wish a wish, which it won’t require a 
fairy godmother to gratify. Look, Frank, do you see 
in the middle of that dark brown purple streak of 
moor a yellow gleam of light ? It is a pond, I think, 
that at this time of the year catches a slanting beam 
of the sun. It can’t be very far off. I have wished 
to go to it every autumn. Will you go with me now 1 
We shall have time before tea.” 

Frank’s dissatisfaction with the stern measures 
that, urged on by Mr. Henry, his father took against 
all who had imposed upon his carelessnes.s as a land- 
lord, increased rather than diminished. He spoke 
warmly to him on the subject, but without avail. He 
remonstrated with Mr. Henry, and told him how he 
\felt that, had his father controlled his careless nature, 
and been an exact, vigilant landlord, these tenantry 
would never have had the great temptation to do 

him wrong ; and that therefore he considered some 
8 


114 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


allowance should be made for them, and some oppor- 
tunity given them to redeem their characters, which 
would be blasted and hardened for ever by the pub- 
licity of a law-suit. But Mr. Henry only raised his 
eyebrows and made answer : 

I like to see these notions in a young man, sir. 
I had them myself at your age. I believe I had 
great ideas then, on the subject of temptation and 
the force of circumstances ; and was as Quixotic as 
any one about reforming rogues. But my experience 
has convinced mte that roguery is innate. Nothing 
but outward force can control it, and keep it within 
bounds. The terrors of the law must be that out- 
ward force. I admire your kindness of heart ; and 
in three-and-twenty we do not look for the wisdom 
and experience of forty or fifty.” 

Frank was indignant at being set aside as an 
unripe youth. He disapproved so strongly of all 
these measures, and of so much that was now going 
on at home under Mr. Henry’s influence, that he 
determined to pay his long promised visit to Scot- 
land ; and Maggie, sad at heart to see how he was 
suffering, encouraged him in his determination. 


CHAPTER YIII. 


After he was gone, there came a November of 
the most dreary and characteristic kind. There 
was incessant rain, and closing-in mists, without a 
gleam of sunshine to light up the drops of water, 
and make the wet stems and branches of the trees 
glisten. Every color seemed dimmed and darkened ; 
and the crisp autumnal glory of leaves fell soddened 
to the ground. The latest flowers rotted away with- 
out ever coming to their bloom ; and it looked as if 
the heavy monotonous sky had drawn closer and 
closer, and shut in the little moorland cottage as 
with a shroud. In doors, things were no more 
cheerful. Maggie saw that her mother was depress- 
ed, and she thought that Edward’s extravagance 
must be the occasion. Oftentimes she wondered 
how far she might speak on the subject ; and once 
or twice she. drew near it in conversation; but her 
mother winced away, and Maggie could not as yet 
^ee any decided good to be gained from encountering 


116 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


such pain. To herself it would have been a relief 
to have known the truth — the worst, as far as her 
mother knew it ; but she was not in the habit of 
thinking of herself She only tried, by long tender 
attention, to cheer and comfort her mother ; and 
she and Nancy strove in every way to reduce the 
household expenditure, for there was little ready 
money to meet it. Maggie wrote regularly to 
Edward ; but since the note inquiring about the 
agency, she had never heard from him. Whether 
her mother received . letters she did not know ; but 
at any rate she did not express anxiety, though her 
looks and manner betrayed that she was ill at ease. 
It was almost a relief to Maggie when some change 
was given to her thoughts by Nancy’s becoming ill. 
The damp gloomy weather brought on some kind of 
rheumatic attack, which obliged the old servant to 
keep her bed. Formerly, in such an emergency, 
they would have engaged some cottager’s wife to come 
and do the house-work ; but now it seemed tacitly 
understood that they could not afford it. Even when 
Nancy grew worse, and required attendance in the 
night, Maggie still persisted in her daily occupations. 
She was wise enough to rest when and how she could ; 
and, with a little forethought, she hoped to be able 
to go through this weary time without any bad effect. 
One morning (it was on the second of December ; 
and even the change of name in the month, although 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


117 


it brought no change of circumstances or weather, 
was a relief — December brought glad tidings even in 
its very name), one morning, dim and dreary, Maggie 
had looked at the clock on leaving Nancy’s room, 
and finding it was not yet half-past five, and knowing 
that her mother and Nancy were both asleep, she 
determined to lie down and rest for. an hour before 
getting up to light the fires. She did not mean to 
go to sleep ; but she was tired out and fell into a 
sound slumber. When she awoke it was with a 
start. It was still dark ; but she had a clear idea 
of being wakened by some distinct, rattling noise. 
There it was once more — against the window, like a 
shower of shot. She went to the lattice, and opened 
it to look out. She had that strange consciousness, 
not to be described, of the near neighborhood of 
some human creature, although she neither saw nor 
heard any one for the first instant. Then Edward 
spoke in a hoarse whisper, right below the window, 
standing on the fiower-beds. 

“ Maggie ! Maggie ! Come down and let me in. 
For your life, don’t make any noise. No one must 
know.” 

Maggie turned sick. Something was wrong, evi- 
dently ; and she was weak and weary. However, 
she stole down the old creaking stairs, and undid 
the heavy bolt, and let her brother in. She felt that 
his dress was quite wet, and she led him, with cau- 


118 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


tious steps, into the kitchen, and shut the door, and 
stirred the fire, before she spoke. He sank into a 
chair, as if worn out with fatigue. She stood, ex- 
pecting some explanation. But when she saw’ he 
could not speak, she hastened to make him a cup of 
teP ; and, stooping down, took off his wet boots, and 
helped him off with his coat, and brought her own 
plaid to wrap round him. All this time her heart 
sunk lower and lower. He allowed her to do what 
she liked, as if he were an automaton ; his head and 
his arms hung loosely down, and his eyes were fixed, 
in a glaring way, on the fire. When she brought 
him some tea, he spoke for the first time ; she could 
not hear what he said till he repeated it, so husky 
was his voice. 

“ Have you no brandy.?” 

She had the key of the little wine-cellar, and 
fetched up some. But as she took a tea-spoon to 
measure it out, he tremblingly clutched at the bottle, 
and shook down a quantity into the empty tea-cup, 
and drank it off at one gulp. He fell back again in 
his chair ; but in a few minutes he roused himself, 
and seemed stronger. 

“ Edward, dear Edward, what is the matter 
said Maggie, at last ; for he got up, and was stag- 
gering toward the outer door, as if he were going 
once more into the rain, and dismal morning- 
twilight. 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


119 


He looked at her fiercely, as she laid her hand on 
his arm. 

‘‘ Confound you ! Don’t touch me. I ’ll not be 
kept here, to be caught and hung !” 

For an instant she thought he was mad. 

“ Caught and hung !” she echoed. My poor 
Edward ! what do you mean?” 

He sat down suddenly on a chair, close by him, 
and covered his face with his hands. When he spoke, 
his voice was feeble and imploring. 

“ The police are after me, Maggie ! What must I 
do ? Oh ! can you hide me ? Can you save me?” 

He looked wild, like a hunted creature. Maggie 
stood aghast. He went on : 

“ My mother ! — Nancy ! Where are they ? I was 
wet through and starving, and I came here. Don’t 
let them take me, Maggie, till I ’m stronger, and 
can give battle.” 

“ Oh ! Edward ! Edward ! What are you say- 
ing ?” said Maggie, sitting down on the dresser, in 
absolute, bewildered despair. “ What have you 
done ?” 

“ I hardly know. I ’m in a horrid dream. I see 
you think I ’m mad ; I wish I were. Won’t Nancy 
come down soon ? You must hide me.” 

“ Poor Nancy is ill in bed !” said Maggie. 

“ Thank God,” said he. “ There’s one less. But 
my mother will be up soon, will she not?” 


120 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


“ Not yet,” replied Maggie. “ Edward, dear, do 
try and tell me what you have done. Why should 
the police be after you ?” 

Why, Maggie,” said he with a kind of forced, 
unnatural laugh, “ they say I ’ve forged.” 

“ And have you ?” asked Maggie, in a still, low 
tone of quiet agony. 

He did not answer for some time, but sat, looking 
on the floor with unwinking eyes. At last he said, 
as if speaking to himself — 

“ If I have, it ’s no more than others have done 
before, and never been found out. I was but borrow- 
ing money. I meant to repay it. If I had asked 
Mr. Buxton, he would have lent it me.” 

“ Mr. Buxton !” said Maggie. 

“ Yes !” answered he, looking sharply and sud- 
denly up at her. “ Your future father-in-law. My 
father’s old friend. It is he that is hunting me to 
death ! No need to look so white and horror-struck, 
Maggie ! It ’s the way of the world, as I might have 
known, if I had not been a blind fool.” 

“ Mr. Buxton !” she whispered, faintly. 

“ Oh, Maggie !” said he, suddenly throwing him- 
self at her feet, “ save me ! You can do it. Write 
to Frank, and make him induce his father to let me 
off. I came to see you, my sweet, merciful sister ! 
I knew you would save me. Good God ! What noise 
is that? The.re are steps in the yard !” 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


121 


And before she could speak, he had rushed into 
the little china closet, which opened out of the par- 
lor, and crouched down in the darkness. It was 
only the man who brought their morning’s supply of 
milk from a neighboring farm. But when Maggie 
opened the kitchen door, she saw how the cold, pale 
light of a winter’s day had filled the air. 

“You’re late with your shutters to-day, miss,” 
said the man. “ I hope Nancy has not been giving 
you all a bad night. Says I to Thomas, who came 
with me to the gate, ‘ It ’s many a year since I saw 
them parlor shutters barred up at half-past eight.’ ” 

Maggie went, as soon as he was gone, and opened 
all the low windows, in order that they might look 
as usual. She wondered at her own outward com- 
posure, while she felt so dead and sick at heart. 
Her mother would soon get up ; must she be told ? 
Edward spoke to her now and then from his hiding- 
place. He dared not go back into the kitchen, into 
which the few neighbors they had were apt to come, 
on their morning’s way to Combehurst, to ask if they 
could do any errands there for Mrs. Browne or 
Nancy. Perhaps a quarter of an hour or so .had 
elapsed since the first alarm, when, as Maggie was 
trying to light the parlor fire, in order that the 
doctor, when he came, might find all as usual, she 
heard the click of the garden gate, and a man’s 
step coming along the walk. She ran up stairs to 


122 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


wash away the traces of the tears which had been 
streaming down her face as she went about her work, 
before she opened the door. There, against the 
watery light of the rainy day without, stood Mr. 
Buxton. He hardly spoke to her, but pushed past 
her, and entered the parlor. He sat down, looking 
as if he did not know what he was doing. Maggie 
tried to keep down her shivering alarm. It was long 
since she had seen him ; and the, old idea of his 
kind, genial disposition, had been sadly disturbed 
by what she had heard from Frank, of his severe 
proceedings against his unworthy tenantry ; and now, 
if he was setting the police in search of Edward, he 
was indeed to be dreaded ; and with Edward so 
close at hand, within earshot ! If the china fell ! He 
would suspect nothing from that ; it would only be 
her own terror. If her mother came down ! But, 
with all these thoughts, she was very still, outwardly, 
as she sat waiting for him to speak. 

“ Have you heard from your brother lately 
asked he, looking up in an angry and disturbed 
manner. “ But I ’ll answer for it he has not been 
writing home for some time. He could not, with 
the guilt he has had on his mind. I ’ll not believe 
in gratitude again. There perhaps was such a thing 
once ; but now-a days the more you do for a person, 
the surer they are to turn against you, and cheat 
you. Now, don’t go white and pale. I know you ’re 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


123 


a good girl in the main j and I ’ve been lying awake 
all night, and I ’ve a deal to say to you. That 
scoundrel of a brother of yours !” 

Maggie could not ask (as would have been natural, 
if she had been ignorant) what Edward had done. 
She knew too well. But Mr. Buxton was too full 
of his own thoughts and feelings to notice her much. 

“ Do you know he has been like the rest ? Do 
you know he has been cheating me — forging my 
name % I don’t know what besides. It ’s well for 
him that they ’ve altered the laws, and he can’t be 
hung for it” (a dead heavy weight was removed from 
Maggie’s mind), “ but Mr. Henry is going to trans- 
port him. It’s worse than Crayston. Crayston 
only ploughed up the turf, and did not • pay rent, 
and sold the timber, thinking I should never miss 
it. But your brother has gone and forged my name 
He had received all the purchase-money, while he 
only gave me half, and said the rest was to come 
afterward. And the ungrateful scoundrel has 
gone and given a forged receipt ! You might have 
knocked me down with a straw when Mr. Henry 
told me about it all last night. ‘ Never talk to me 
of virtue and such humbug again,’ I said, ‘ I ’ll never 
believe in them. Every one is for what he can get.’ 
However, Mr. Henry wrote to the superintendent 
of police at Woodchester ; and has gone over him- 


124 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


self this morning to see after it. But to think of 
your father having such a son !” 

“ Oh my poor father !” sobbed out Maggie. “ How 
glad I am you are dead before this disgrace came 
upon us !” 

“ You may well say disgrace. You ’re a good girl 
yourself, Maggie. I have always said that. How 
Edward has turned out as he has done, I cannot 
conceive. But now, Maggie, I ’ve something to say 
to you.” He moved uneasily about, as if he did not 
know how to begin. Maggie was standing leaning 
her head against the chimney-piece, longing for her 
visitor to go, dreading the next minute, and wishing 
to shrink into some dark corner of oblivion where 
she might forget all for a time, till she regained 
a small portion of the bodily strength that had 
been sorely tried of late. Mr. Buxton saw her 
white look of anguish, and read it in part, but not 
wholly. He was too intent on what he was going to 
say. 

I ’ve been lying awake all night, thinking. You 
see the disgrace it is to you, though you are inno- 
cent ; and I ’m sure you can’t think of involving 
Frank in it.” 

Maggie went to the little sofa, and, kneeling down 
by it, hid her face in the cushions. He did not go 
on, for he thought she was not listening to him. At 
last he said — 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 125 

“ Come now, be a sensible girl, and face it out. 
I ’ve a plan to propose.” 

“ I hear,” said she, in a dull veiled voice. 

“ Why, you know how against this engagement 1 
have always been. Frank is but three-and-twenty, 
and does not know his own mind, as I tell him. 
Besides, he might marry any one he chose.” 

“ He has chosen me,” murmured Maggie. 

“ Of course, of course. But you ’ll not, think of 
keeping him to it, after what has passed. You 
would not have such a fine fellow as Frank pointed 
at as the brother-in-law of a forger, would you ? It 
was far from what I wished for him before ; but 
now ! Why you ’re glad your father is dead, rather 
than he should have lived to see this day ; and 
rightly too, I think. And you ’ll not go and dis- 
grace Frank. From what Mr. Henry hears, Edward 
has been a discredit to you in many ways. Mr. 
Henry was at Woodchester yesterday, and he says 
if Edward has been fairly entered as an attorney, 
his name may be struck off the Bolls for many a 
thing he has done. Think of my Frank having his 
bright name tarnished by any connection with such 
a man ! Mr. Henry says, even in a court of law 
what has come out about Edward would be excuse 
enough for a breach of promise of marriage.” 

Maggie lifted up her wan face ; the pupils of her 
eyes were dilated, her lips were dead white. She 


126 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


looked straight at Mr. Buxton with indignant impa- 
tience — 

“ Mr. Henry ! Mr. Henry ! What has Mr. Henry 
to do with me ?” 

Mr. Buxton was staggered by the wild, imperious 
look, so new upon her mild, sweet face. But he was 
resolute for Frank’s sake, and returned to the 
charge after a moment’s pause. 

“ Mr. Henry is a good friend of mine, who has my 
interest at heart. He has known what a subject of 
regret your engagement has been to me ; though 
really my repugnance to it was without cause for- 
merly, compared to what it is now. Now be reasona- 
ble, my dear. I ’m willing to do something for you 
if you will do something for me. You. must see wdiat 
a stop this sad affair has put to any thoughts be- 
tween you and Frank. And you must see what 
cause I have to wish to punish Edward for his un- 
grateful behavior, to say nothing of the forgery. 
Well now ! I don’t know what Mr. Henry will say 
to me, but I have thought of this. If you ’ll write a 
letter to Frank, just saying distinctly that, for rea- 
.sons which must for ever remain a secret” — 

“ Remain a secret from Frank ?” said Maggie, 
again lifting up her head. “ Why?” 

“ Why ? my dear ! You startle me with that man- 
ner of yours — ^just let me finish out my sentence. 
If you ’ll say that, for reasons which must^'forever 


THK MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


127 


remain a secret, you decidedly and unchangeably 
give up all connection, all engagement with him 
(which, in fact, Edward’s conduct has as good as put 
an end to), I ’ll go over to Woodchester and' tell Mr. 
Henry and the police that they need not make fur- 
ther search after Edward, for that I won’t appear 
against him. You can save your brother ; and you ’ll 
do yourself no harm by writing this letter, for of 
course you see your engagement is broken off. For 
you never would wish to disgrace Frank.” 

He paused, anxiously awaiting her reply. She 
did 'not speak. 

“ I ’m sure, if I appear against him, he^ is as good 
as transported,” he put in, after a while. 

J ust at this time there was a little sound of dis- 
placed china in the closet. Mr. Buxton did not at- 
tend to it, but Maggie heard it. She got up, and 
stood quite calm before Mr. Buxton. 

‘•You must go,” said she. “I know you; and I 
know you are not aware of the cruel way in which 
you have spoken to me, while asking me to give up 
the very hope and marrow of iny life” — she could 
not go on for a moment ; she was choked up with 
anguish. 

“ It was the truth, Maggie,” said he, somewhat 
abashed. 

“ It was the truth that made the cruelty of it. 
But you did not mean to speak cruelly to me, I 


128 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


know. Only it is hard all at once to be called upon 
to face the shame and blasted character of one who 
was once an innocent child at the same father’s 
knee.” 

“ I may have spoken too plainly,” said Mr. Bux- 
ton, “ but it was necessary to set the plain truth 
before you, for my son’s sake. You will write the 
letter I ask ?” 

Her look was wandering and uncertain. Her at- 
tention was distracted by sounds which to him had 
no meaning; and her judgment she felt was waver- 
ing and disturbed. 

“ I cannot tell. Grive me time to think ; you will 
do that, I ’m sure. Go now, and leave me alone. 
If it is right, God will give me strength to do it, 
and perhaps He will comfort me in my desolation. 
But I do not know — I cannot tell. I must have 
time to think. Go now, if you please, sir,” said 
she, imploringly. * 

T am sure you will see it is a right thing I ask 
of you,” he persisted. 

“ Go now,” she repeated. 

“Very well. In two hours, I will come back 
' again ; for your sake, time is precious. Even while 
we speak lie may be arrested. At eleven, I will 
come back.” 

He went away, leaving her sick and dizzy with 
the effort to be calm and collected enough to think. 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


129 


She had forgotten for the moment how near Edward 
was; and started when she saw the closet-door open, 
and his face put out. 

“ Is he gone ? I thought he never would go. 
What a time you kept him, Maggie ! I was so 
afraid, once, you might sit down to write the letter 
in this room ; and then I knew he would stop and 
worry you with interruptions and advice, so that it 
would never be ended; and my back was almost 
broken. But you sent him off famously. Why, 
Maggie ! Maggie ! — ^you ’re not going to faint, 
surely !” 

His sudden burst out of a whisper into a loud 
exclamation of surprise, made her rally; but she 
could not stand. She tried to smile, for he really 
looked frightened. 

“I have been sitting up for many nights — and 
now this sorrow !” Her smile died away into a 
wailing, feeble cry. 

“Well, well! it’s over now, you see. I was 
frightened enough myself this morning, I own ; and 
then you were brave and kind. But I knew you 
could save me, all along.” 

At this moment the door opened, and Mrs. 
Browne came in. 

“ Why, Edward, dear I who would have thought 
of seeing you! This is good of you; what a 
pleasant surprise ! I often said, you might come 
9 


130 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


over for a day from Woodchester. What’s the 
matter, Maggie, you look so fagged ? She ’s losing 
all her beauty, is not she, Edward? Where’s 
breakfast? I thought I should find all ready. 
What’s the matter? Why don’t you speak?” 
said she, growing anxious at their silence. Maggie 
left the explanation to Edward. 

“ Mother,” said he, “ I ’ve been rather a naughty 
boy, and got into some trouble ; but Maggie is going 
to help me out of it, like a good sister.” 

“What is it?” said Mrs. Browne, looking be- 
wildered and uneasy. 

“ Oh — I took a little liberty with our friend Mr. 
Buxton’s name ; and wrote it down to a receipt — 
that was all.” 

Mrs. Browne’s face showed that the light came 
but slowly into her mind. 

“But that’s forgery — is not it?” asked she at 
length, in terror. 

“ People call it so,” said Edward ; “I call it bor- 
rowing from an old friend, who was always willing 
to lend.” 

“ Does he know ? — is he angry ?” asked Mrs. 
Browne. 

“Yes, he knows ; and he blusters a deal. He 
was working himself up grandly at first. Maggie I 
I was getting rarely frightened, I can tell you.” 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 131 

“ Has he been here ?” said Mrs. Browne, in be- 
wildered fright. 

Oh, yes ! he and Maggie have been having a 
long talk, while I was hid in the china-closet. I 
would not go over that half-hour again for any mon- 
ey. However, he and Maggie came to terms, at 
last.” 

“No, Edward, we did not!” said Maggie, in a 
low quivering voice. 

“ Very nearly. She’s to give up her engagement, 
and then he will let me off.” 

“ Ho you mean that Maggie is to give up her 
engagement to Mr. Frank Buxton?” asked his 
mother. 

“ Yes. It would never have come to anything, 
one might see that. Old Buxton would have held 
out against it till doomsday. And, sooner or later, 
Frank would have grown weary. If Maggie had 
had any spirit, she might have worked him up to 
marry her before now ; and then I should have been 
spared even this fright, for they would never have 
set the police after Mrs. Frank Buxton’s brother.” 

“ Why, dearest Edward, the police are not after 
you, are they?” said Mrs. Browne, for the first time 
alive to the urgency of the case. 

“ I believe they are though,” said Edward. “ But 
after what Mr. Buxton promised this morning, it 
does not signify.” 


132 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


“ He did not promise anything ” said Maggie. 

Edward turned sharply to her, and looked at her. 
Then he went and took hold of her wrists with no 
gentle grasp, and spoke to her through his set teeth, 

‘‘ What do you mean, Maggie ? — what do you 
mean ?” (giving her a little shake.) “ Do you mean 
that you ’ll stick to your lover through thick and thin, 
and leave your brother to be transported ? Speak, 
can’t you?” 

She looked up at him, and tried to speak, but no 
words came out of her dry throat. At last she made 
a strong effort. 

“ You must give me time to think. I will do what 
is right, by God’s help.” 

“ As if it was not right — and such cant — to save 
your brother,” said he, throwing her hands away in 
a passionate manner. 

I must be alone,” said Maggie, rising, and try- 
ing to stand steadily in the reeling room. She heard 
her mother and Edward speaking, but their words 
gave her no meaning, and she went out. She was 
leaving the house by the kitchen-door, when she re- 
membered Nancy, left alone and helpless all through 
this* long morning; and, ill as she could endure deten- 
tion from *he solitude she longed to seek, she patiently 
fulfilled her small duties, and sought out some break- 
fast for the poor old woman. 

When she carried it up stairs, Nancy said — 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


133 


“ There ’s something up. You ’ve trouble in your 
sweet face, my darling. Never mind telling me — 
only don’t sob so. I ’ll pray for you, bairn, and God 
will help you.” 

^ Thank you, Nancy. Do !” ai^ she left the room. 


CHAPTEE IX. 


When she opened the kitchen-door there was the 
same small, mizzling rain that had obscured the 
light for weeks, and now it seemed to obscure hope. 
She clambered slowly (for indeed she was very feeble) 
up the Fell-Lane, and threw herself under the leaf- 
less thorn, every small branch and twig of which was 
loaded with rain-drops. She did not see the well- 
beloved and familiar landscape for her tears, and did 
not miss the hills in the distance that were hidden 
behind the rain-clouds, and sweeping showers. 

Mrs. Browne and Edward sat over the fire. He 
told her his own story; making the temptation 
strong; the crime a mere trifling, venial error, 
which he had been led into, through his idea that he 
was to become Mr. Buxton’s agent. 

“ But if it is only that,” said Mrs. Browne, 
“ surely Mr. Buxton will not think of going to law 
with you ?” 

“ It ’s not merely going to law that he will think 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 135 

of, but trying and transporting me. That Henry he 
has got for his agent is as sharp as a needle, and as 
hard as a nether mill-stone. And the fellow has ob- 
tained such a hold over Mr. Buxton, that he .dare 
but do what he tells him. I can’t imagine how he 
had so much free-will left as to come with his pro- 
posal to Maggie ; unless, indeed, Henry knows of it — 
or, what is most likely of all, has put him up to it. 
Between them they have given that poor fool Cray- 
ston a pretty dose of it ; and I should have come yet 
worse off if it had not been for Maggie. Let me get 
clear this time, and I will keep to windward of the 
law for the future.” 

“ If we sold the cottage we could repay it,” said 
Mrs. Browne, meditating. “ Maggie and I could live 
on very little. But you see this property* is held in 
trust for you two.” 

“ Nay, mother ; you must not talk of repaying it. 
Depend upon it he will be so glad to have Frank 
free from his engagement, that he won’t think of 
asking for the money. And if Mr. Henry says any- 
thing about it, we can tell him it’s not half the 
damages they would have had to have given Maggie, 
if Frank had been extricated in any other way. I 
wish she would come back ; I would prime her a 
little as to what to say. Keep a look out, mother, 
lest Mr. Buxton returns and find me here.” 

“ I wish Maggie would come in too,” said Mrs. 


136 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


Browne. “ I ’m afraid slie ’ll catch cold this damp 
day, and then I shall have two to nnrse. You think 
she ’ll give it up, don’t you, Edward ? If she does not 
I ’m afraid of harm coming to you. Had you not 
better keep out of the way ?” 

“ It ’s fine talking. Where am I to go out of 
sight of the police this wet day : without a shilling 
in the world too ? If you ’ll give me some money 
I ’ll be off fast enough, and make assurance doubly 
sure. I’m not much afraid of Maggie. She’s a 
little yea-nay thing, and I can always bend her round 
to what we want. She had better take care, too,” 
said he, with a desperate look on his face, “ for by 
G — I ’ll make her give up all thoughts of Frank, 
rather than be taken and tried. Why ! it ’s my 
chance for all my life ; and do you think I ’ll have 
it frustrated for a girl’s whim ?” 

“ I think it ’s rather hard upon her too,” pleaded 
his mother. “ She ’s very fond of him ; and it would 
have been such a good match for her.” 

“ Pooh ! she ’s not nineteen yet, and has plenty 
of time before her to pick up somebody else ; while, 
don’t you see, if I ’m caught and transported, I ’m 
done for for life. Besides I ’ve a notion Frank had 
already begun to be tired of the affair ; it would 
have been broken off in a month or two, without her 
gaining anything by it.” 

“Well, if you think so,” replied Mrs. Browne. 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 137 

“ But I ’m sorry for her. I always told her she was 
foolish to think so much about him : but I know 
she ’ll fret a deal if it ’s given up.” 

“ Oh ! she ’ll soon comfort herself with thinking 
that she has saved me. I wish she’d come. It 
must be near eleven. I do wish she would come. 
Hark ! is not that the kitchen-door ?” said he, turn- 
ing white, and betaking himself once more to the 
china-closet. He held it ajar till he heard Maggie 
stepping softly and slowly across the floor. She 
opened the parlor-door ; and stood looking in, with 
the strange imperceptive gaze of a sleep-walker. 
Then she roused herself and saw that he was not 
there ; so she came in a step or two, and sat down 
in her dripping cloak on a chair near the door. 

Edward returned, bold now there was no danger. 

“ Maggie !” said he, “ what have you flxed to say 
to Mr. Burton ?” 

She sighed deeply ; and then lifted up her large 
innocent eyes to his face. 

“I cannot give up Frank,” said she, in a low, 
quiet voice. 

Mrs. Browne threw up her hands and exclaimed 
in terror — 

“ Oh Edward, Edward ! go away — I will give you 
all the plate I have ; you can sell it — my darling, 
go!” 

“ Not till I have brought Maggie to reason,” said 


138 THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 

he. in a manner as quiet as her own, hut with a sub- 
dued ferocity in it, which she saw, but which did not 
intimidate her. 

He went up to her, and spoke below his breath. 

“Magffie, we were children together — we two — 
brother and sister of one blood ! Do you give me up 
to be put in prison — in the hulks — among the basest 
of criminals — I don’t know where — all for the sake 
of your own selfish happiness ?” 

She trembled very much ; but did not speak or 
cry, or make any noise. 

“ You were always selfish. You always thought 
of yourself But this time I did think you would 
have shown how different you could be. But it’s 
self — self — paramount above all.” 

“ Oh Maggie ! how can you be so hard-hearted and 
selfish ?” echoed Mrs. Browne, crying and sobbing. 

“ Mother !” said Maggie, ‘‘ I know that I think 
too ofteYi and too much of myself But this time 1 
thought only of Frank. He loves me ; it would break 
his heart if I wrote as Mr. Buxton wishes, cutting 
our lives asunder, and giving no reason for it.” 

“ He loves you so !” said Edward, tauntingly. “ A 
man’s love break his heart ! You ’ve got some pretty 
notions ! Who told you that he loved you so despe- 
rately? How do you know it?” 

“Because I love him so,” said she, in a quiet, 
earnest voice. “ I do not know of any other reason ; 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


139 


but that is quite sufficient to me. I believe him when 
he says he loves me ; and I have no right to cause 
him the infinite — the terrible pain, which my own 
heart tells me he would feel, if I did what Mr. Bux- 
ton wishes me.” 

Her manner was so simple and utterly truthful, 
that it was as quiet and fearless as a child’s ; her 
brother’s fierce looks of anger had no power over 
her ; and his blustering died away before her into 
something of the frightened cowardliness he had 
shown in the morning. But Mrs. Browne came up 
to Maggie ; and took her hand between both of hers, 
which were trembling. “ Maggie, you can save 
Edward. I know I have not loved you as I should 
have done ; but I will love and comfort you forever, 
if you will but write as Mr. Buxton says. Think ! 
Perhaps Mr. Frank may not take you at your word, 
but may come over and see you, and all may be 
right, and yet Edward may be saved. It is only 
writing this letter ; you need not stick to it.” 

“No!” said Edward. “A signature, if you can 
prove compulsion, is not valid. We will all prove 
that you write this letter under compulsion ; and if 
Frank loves you so desperately, he won’t give you up 
without a trial to make you change your mind.” 

“ No I” said Maggie, firmly. “ If I write the 
letter I abide by it. I will not quibble with my con- 
science. Edward I I will not marry — I will go and 


140 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


live near you, and come to you whenever I may — 
and give up my life to you if you are sent to prison ; 
my mother and I will go, if need be — I do not 
know yet what I can do, or cannot do, for you, but 
all I can I will ; but this one thing I cannot.” 

‘‘ Then I ’m off!” said Edward. “ On your death- 
bed may you remember this hour, and how you denied 
your only brother’s request. May you ask my for- 
giveness with your dying breath, and may I be there 
to deny it you.” 

“Wait a minute!” said Maggie, springing up, 
rapidly. “ Edward, don’t curse me with such terrible 
words till all is done. Mother, I implore you to keep 
him here. Hide him — do what you can to conceal 
him. I will have one more trial.” She snatched up 
her bonnet, and was gone, before they had time to 
think or speak to arrest her. 

On she flew along the Combehurst road. As she 
went, the tears fell like rain down her face, and she 
talked to herself 

“ He should not have said so. No ! he should not 
have said so. We were the only two.” But still she 
pressed on, over the thick, wet, brown heather. She 
saw Mr Buxton coming ; and she went still quicker. 
The rain had cleared off, and a yellow watery gleam 
of sunshine was struggling out. She stopped him, 
or he would have passed her unheeded ; little expect- 
ing to meet her there. 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


141 


“ I wanted to see you,” said she, all at once resum- 
ing her composure, and almost assuming a dignified 
manner. “ You must not go down to our house ; we 
have sorrow enough there. Come under these fir- 
trees, and let me speak to you.” 

“ I hope you have thought of what I said, and are 
willing to do what I asked you.” 

“No !” said she. “ I have thought and thought. 
I did not think in a selfish spirit, though they say I 
did. I prayed first. I could not do that earnestly, 
and he selfish, I think. I cannot give up Frank. I 
know the disgrace ; and if he, knowing all, thinks fit 
to give me up, I shall never say a word, but bow my 
head, and try and live out my appointed days quietly 
and cheerfully. But he is the judge, not you ; nor 
have I any right to do what you ask me.” She 
stopped, because the agitation took away her breath. 
He began in a cold manner : — “ I am very sorry. 
The law must take its course. I would have saved 
my son from the pain of all this knowledge, and that 
which he will of course feel in the necessity of giving 
up his engagement. I would have refused to appear 
against your brother, shamefully ungrateful as he 
has been. Now you cannot .wonder that I act ac- 
cording to my agent’s advice, and prosecute your 
brother as if he were a stranger.” 

He turned to go away. He was so cold and de- 


142 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


termined that for a moment Maggie was timid. But 
she then laid her hand on his arm. 

“ Mr. Buxton ” said she, “ you will not do what 
you threaten. I know you better. Think ! My 
father was your old friend. That claim is, perhaps, 
done away with by Edward’s conduct. But I do not 
believe you can forget it always. If you did fulfill 
the menace you uttered just now, there would come 
times as you grew older, and life grew fainter and 
fainter before you — quiet times of thought, when 
you remembered the days of your youth, and the 
friends you then had and knew ; — you would recol- 
lect that one of them had left an only son, who had 
done wrong — who had sinned — sinned against you 
in his weakness — and you would think then — you 
could not help it — how you had forgotten mercy in 
justice — and, as justice required he should be 
treated as a felon, you threw him among felons — 
where every glimmering of goodness was darkened 
for ever. Edward is, after all, more weak than 
wicked ; — but he will become wicked if you put him 
in prison, and have him transported. God is merci- 
ful — ^we cannot tell or think how merciful. Oh, sir, 
I am so sure you will be merciful, and give my 
brother — my poor sinning brother — a chance, that I 
will tell you all. I will throw myself upon your 
pity. Edward is even now at home — miserable and 
desperate ; — my mother is too much stunned to un 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


143 


derstand all our wretcliedness — for very wretched 
we are in our shame.” 

As she spoke the wind arose and shivered in the 
wiry leaves of the fir-trees, and there was a moaning 
sound as of some Ariel imprisoned in the thick 
branches that, tangled overhead, made a shelter for 
them. Either the noise or Mr. Buxton’s fancy 
called up an echo to Maggie’s voice — a pleading 
with her pleading — a sad tone of regret, distinct 
yet blending with her speech, and a falling, dying 
sound, as her voice died away in miserable sus- 
pense. 

It might be that, formed as she was by Mrs. 
Buxton’s care and love, her accents and words were 
such as that lady, now at rest from all sorrow, would 
have used ; — somehow, at any rate, the thought 
flashed into Mr. Buxton’s mind, that as Maggie 
spoke, his dead wife’s voice was heard, imploring 
mercy in a clear, distinct tone, though faint, as if 
separated from him by an infinite distance of space. 
At least, this is the account Mr. Buxton would have 
^ven of the manner in which the idea of his wife 
became present to him, and what she would have 
wished him to do a powerful motive in his conduct. 
Words of hers, long ago spoken, and merciful, for- 
giving expressions made use of in former days to 
soften him in some angry mood, were clearly remem- 
bered while Maggie spoke ; and their influence was 


144 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


perceptible in the change of his tone, and the waver- 
ing of his manner henceforward. 

“ And yet you will not save Frank from being 
involved in your disgrace,” said he; but more as 
if weighing and deliberating on the case than he had 
ever spoken before. 

If Frank wishes it, I will quietly withdraw my- 
self out of his sight forever ; — I give you my prom- 
ise, before pod, to do so. I shall not utter one 
word of entreaty or complaint. I will try not to 
wonder or feel surprise ; — I will bless him in every 
action of his future life — but think how different 
would be the disgrace he would voluntarily incur to 
my poor mother’s shame, when she wakens up to 
know what her child has done ! Her very torper 
about it now is more painful than words can tell.” 

“What could Edward do?” asked Mr. Buxton. 
“ Mr. Henry won’t hear of my passing over any 
frauds.” 

“ Oh, you relent !” said Maggie, taking his hand, 
and pressing it. “ What could he do ? He could do 
the same, whatever it was, as you thought of hfs 
doing, if I had written that terrible letter.” 

“And you’ll be willing to give it up, if Frank 
wishes, when he knows all ?” asked Mr. Buxton. 

She crossed her hands and drooped her head, but 
answered steadily. 

“ Whatever Frank wishes, when he knows all, I 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


145 


will gladly do. I will speak the truth. I do not 
believe that any shame surrounding me, and not in 
me, will alter Frank’s love one title.” 

“We shall see.” said Mr. Buxton. “But what I 

thought of. Edward’s doing, in case Well, never 

mind ! (seeing how she shrunk back from all mention 
of the letter he had asked her to write,)— was to go 
to America, out of the way. Then Mr. Henry 
would think he had escaped, and need never be told 
of my coenivance. I think he would throw up the 
agency, if he were ; and he ’s a very clever man. 
If Ned is in England, Mr. Henry will ferret him 
out. And, besides, this affair is so blown, I don’t 
think he could return to his profession. What do 
you say to this, Maggie ?” 

“ I will tell my mother. I must ask her. To me 
it seems most desirable. Only, I fear he is very ill ; 
and it seems lonely ; but never mind ! We ought 
to be thankful to you forever. I cannot tell you 
how I hope and trust he will live to show you what 
your goodness has made him.” 

“ But you must lose no time. If Mr. Henry 
traces him, I can ’t answer for myself I shall have 
no good reason to give, as I should have had, if I 
eould have told him that Frank and you were to be 
as strangers to each other. And even then I should 
have been afraid, he is such a determined fellow ; 
but uncommonly clever. Stay !” said he, yielding 
10 


146 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


to a sudden and inexplicable desire to see Edward, 
and discover if his criminality had in any way 
changed his outward appearance. “ I ’ll go with 
you. I can hasten things. If Edward goes, he 
must be off, as soon as possible, to Liverpool, and 
leave no trace. The next packet sails the day after 
to-morrow. I noted it down from the Times?'' 

Maggie and he sped along the road. He spoke 
his thoughts aloud ; 

“ I wonder if he will be gi*ateful to me for this. 
Not that I ever mean to look for gratitude again. 
I mean to try, not to care for anybody but Frank 
‘ Govern men by outward force,’ says Mr. Henry. 
He is an uncommonly clever man, and he says, the 
longer he lives, the more he is convinced of the bad- 
ness of men. He always looks for it now, even in 
those who are the best, apparently.” 

Maggie was too anxious to answer, or even to 
attend to him. At the top of the slope she asked 
him to wait while she ran down and told the result 
of her conversation with him. Her mother was 
alone, looking white and sick. She told her that 
Edward had gone into the hay-loft, above the old, 
disused shippon. 

Maggie related the substance of her interview 
with Mr. Buxton, and his wish that Edward should 
go to America. 

“To America !” said Mrs. Browne. “ ^ by 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


147 


that ’s as far as Botany Bay. It ’s just like trans- 
porting him. I thought you ’d done something for 
us, you looked so glad.” 

“ Dearest mother, it is something. He is not to 
he subjected to imprisonment or trial. I must go 
and tell him, only I must beckon to Mr. Buxton 
first. But when he comes, do show him how thank- 
ful we are for his mercy to Edward.” 

Mrs. Browne’s murmurings, whatever was their 
meaning, were lost upon Maggie. She ran through 
the court, and up the slope, with the lightness of a 
lawn ; for though she was tired in body to an excess 
she had never been before in her life, the opening 
beam of hope in the dark sky made her spirit con- 
quer her flesh for the time. 

She did not stop to speak, but turned again as 
soon as she had signed to Mr. Buxton to follow her. 
She left the house-door open for his entrance, and 
passed out again through the kitchen into the space 
behind, which was partly an uninclosed yard, and 
partly rocky common. She ran across the little 
green to the shippon, and mounted the ladder into 
the dimly-lighted loft. Up in a dark corner Edward 
stood, with an old rake in his hand. 

“ I thought it was you, Maggie !” said he, heaving 
a deep breath of relief “What have you done? 
Have you agreed to write the letter ? You ’ve done 
something for me, I see by your looks.” 


148 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


“ Yes ! I have told Mr. Buxton all. He is 
waiting for you in the parlor. Oh ! I knew he 
could not he so hard !” She was out of breath. 

“ I don’t understand you !” said he. “ You ’ve 
never been such a fool as to go and tell him where 
lam?” 

“ Yes, I have. I felt I might trust him. He 
has promised not to prosecute you. The worst is, 
he says you must go to America. But come down, 
Ned, and speak to him. You owe him thanks, and 
he wants to see you.” 

“ I can ’t go through a .scene. I ’m not up to it. 
Besides, are you sure he is not entrapping me to 
the police ? If I had a farthing of money I would 
not trust him, but be off to the moors.” 

“ Oh, Edward ! How do you think he would do 
anything so treacherous and mean ? I beg you not 
to lose time in distrust. He says himself, if Mr. 
Henry comes before you are off, he does not know 
what will be the consequence. The packet sails for 
America in two days. It is sad for 3mu to have to 
go. Perhaps even yet he may think of something 
better, though I don’t know how we can ask or ex- 
pect it.” 

“ I don’t want anything better,” replied he, “ than 
that I should have money enough to carry me to 
America. I ’m in more scrapes than this (though 
none so bad) in England ; and in America there ’s 


THE MOORLAND COtTAGE. 149 

many an opening to fortune.” He followed her 
down the steps while he spoke. Once in the yellow 
light of the watery day, she was struck by his 
ghastly look. Sharp lines of suspicion and cun- 
ning seemed to have been stamped upon his face, 
making it look older by many years than his age 
warranted. His jaunty evening dress, all weather- 
stained and dirty, added to his forlorn and disrepu- 
table appearance ; but most of all — deepest of all — 
was the impression she received that he was not 
long for this world ; and oh ! how unfit for the 
next ! Still, if time was given — if he were placed 
far away from temptation, she thought that her 
father’s son might yet repent, and be saved. She 
took his hand, for he was hanging back as they 
came near the parlor-door, and led him in. She 
looked like some guardian angel, with her face that 
beamed out trust, and hope, and thankfulness. He, 
on the contrary, hung his head in angry, awkward 
shame ; and half wished he had trusted to his own 
wits, and tried to evade the police, rather than have 
been forced into this interview. 

His mother came to him ; for she loved him all 
the more fondly, now he seemed degraded and friend- 
less. She could not, or would not, comprehend the 
extent of his guilt ; and had upbraided Mr. Buxton 
to the top of her bent for thinking of itending him 
away to America. There was a sifece when he 


150 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


came in which was insupportable to him. He looked 
up with clouded eyes, that dared not meet Mr. 
Buxton’s. 

“ I am here, sir, to learn what you wish me to do. 
Maggie says I am to go to America ; if that is where 
you want to send me, I ’m ready.” 

Mr. Buxton wished himself away as heartily as 
Edward. Mrs. Browne’s upbraidings, just when he 
felt that he had done a kind action, and yielded, 
against his judgment, to Maggie’s entreaties, had 
made him think himself very ill used. And now 
here was Edward speaking in a sullen, savage kind 
of way, instead of showing any gratitude. The idea 
of Mr. Henry’s stern displeasure loomed in the back- 
ground. 

“Yes!” said he, “I’m glad to find you come 
into the idea of going to America. It ’s the only 
place for you. The sooner you can go, and the 
better.” 

“ I can’t go without money,” said Edward, dog- 
gedly. “ If I had had money, I need not have come 
here.” 

“ Oh, Ned I would you have gone without seeing 
me ?” said Mrs. Browne, bursting into tears. “ Mr. 
Buxton, I cannot let him go to America. Look how 
ill he is. He ’ll die if you send him there.” 

“ Mother^ don’t give way so,” said Edward, kindly, 
taking her hand! “ I ’m not ill, at least not to sig- 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


151 


nify. Mr. Buxton is right: America is the only 
place for me. To tell the truth, even if Mr. Buxton 
is good enough” (he said this as if unwilling to 
express any word of thankfulness) “ not to prosecute 
me, there are others who may — and will. I ’m safer 
out of the country. Give me money enough to get 
to Liverpool and pay my passage, and I ’ll he olf this 
minute.” 

“ You shall not,” said Mrs. Browne, holding him 
tightly. “ You told me this morning you were led 
into temptation, and went wrong because you had no 
comfortable home, nor any one to care for you, and 
make you happy. It will be worse in America. 
You’ll get wrong again, and be away from all who 
can help you. Or you ’ll die all by yourself, in some 
backwood or other. Maggie ! you might speak and 
help me — how can you stand so still, and let him go 
to America without a word !” 

Maggie looked up bright and steadfast, as if she 
saw something beyond the material present. Here 
was the opportunity for self-sacrifice of which Mrs. 
Buxton had spoken to her in her childish days — 
the time which comes to all, but comes unheeded 
and unseen to those whose eyes are not trained to 
watching. 

“ Mother ! could you do without me for a time ? 
If you could, and it would make you easier, and help 
Edward to” — The word on her lips died away ; for 


152 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


it seemed to imply a reproach on one who stood in 
his shame among them all. 

“ You would go !” said Mrs. Browne, catching at 
the unfinished sentence. Oh ! Maggie, that ’s the 
best thing you ’ve ever said or done since you were 
born. Edward, would not you .like to have Maggie 
with you ?” 

“Yes,” said he, “well enough. It would be far 
better for me than going all alone ; though I dare say 
I could make my way pretty well after a time. If 
she went, she might stay till I felt settled, and had 
made some friends, and then she could come back.” 

Mr. Buxton was astonished at first by this proposal 
of Maggie’s. He could not all at once understand 
the difference between what she now offered to do, 
and what he had urged upon her only this very 
morning. But as he thought about it, he perceived 
that what was her own she was willing to sacrifice ; 
but that Frank’s heart, once given into her faithful 
keeping, she was answerable for it to him and to 
God. This light came down upon him slowly ; but 
when he understood, he admired with almost a won- 
dering admiration. That little timid girl brave 
enough to cross the ocean and go to a foreign land, 
if she could only help to save her brother ! 

“ I ’m sure Maggie,” said he, turning towards her, 
“ you are a good, thoughtful little creature. It may 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 153 

be the saving of Edward — I believe it will. I think 
God will bless you for being so devoted.” 

“ The expense will be doubled,” said Edward. 

“ My dear boy ! never mind the money. I can 
get it advanced upon this cottage.” 

“ As for that, I ’ll advance it,” said Mr. Buxton. 

“ Could we not,” said Maggie, hesitating from her 
want of knowledge, “ make over the furniture — papa’s 
books, and what little plate we have, to Mr. Buxton 
— something like pawning them — if he would advance 
the requisite money ? He, strange as it may seem, 
is the only person you can ask in this great strait.” 

And so it was arranged, after some demur on Mr. 
Buxton’s part. But Maggie kept steadily to her 
point as soon as she found that it was attainable ; and 
Mrs. Browne was equally inflexible, though from a 
different feeling. She regarded Mr. Buxton as the 
cause of her son’s banishment, and refused to accept 
of any favor from him. If there had been time, in- 
deed, she would have preferred obtaining the money 
in the same manner from any one else. Edward 
brightened up a little when he heard the sum could 
be procured; he was almost indifferent how; and, 
strangely callous, as Maggie thought, he even propos- 
ed to draw up a legal form of assignment. Mr. 
Buxton only thought of hurrying on the departure ; 
but he could not refrain from expressing his approval 


154 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


and admiration of Maggie whenever he came near 
her. Before he went, he called her aside. 

“ My dear, I ’m not sure if Frank can do better 
than marry you, after all. Mind ! I Ve not given 
it as much thought as I should like. But if you 
come back as we plan, next autumn, and he is steady 
to you till then — and Edward is going on well — 
(if he can but keep good, he ’ll do, for he is very 
sharp — ^yon is a knowing paper he drew up) — why, 
I ’ll think about it. Only let Frank see a bit of 
the world first. I ’d rather you did not tell him I ’ve 
any thoughts of coming round, that he may have a 
fair trial ; and I ’ll keep it from Erminia if I can, or 
she will let it all out to . him. I shall see you to- 
morrow at the coach. God bless you, my girl, and 
keep you on the great wide sea.” He was absolutely 
in tears when he went away — tears of admiring 
regret over Maggie. 


CHAPTER X. 


The more Maggie thought, the more she felt sure 
that the impulse on which she had acted in proposing 
to go with her brother was right. She feared there 
was little hope for his character, whatever there 
might he for his worldly fortune, if he were thrown, 
in the condition of mind in which he was now, among 
the set of adventurous men who are continually going 
over to America in search of an El Dorado to he 
discovered by their wits. She knew she had but 
little influence over him at present ; but she would 
not doubt or waver in her hope that patience and love 
might work him right at last. She meant to get 
some employment — in teaching — in needlework — in 
a shop — no matter how humble — and be no burden 
to him, and make him a happy home, from which he 
should feel no wish to wander. Her chief anxiety 
was about her mother. She did not dwell more than 
she could help on her long absence from Frank ; it 
was too sad, and yet too necessary. She meant to 


156 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


write and tell him all about herself and Edward. 
The only thing which she would keep for some happy 
future should be the possible revelation of the pro- 
posal which Mr. Buxton had made, that she should 
give up her engagement as a condition of his not 
prosecuting Edward. 

There was much sorrowful bustle in the moorland 
cottage that day. Erminia brought up a portion of 
the money Mr. Buxton was to advance, with an 
entreaty that Edward would not show himself out of 
his home ; and an account of a letter from Mr. 
Henry, stating that the Woodchester police believed 
him to be in London, and that search was being 
made for him there. 

Erminia looked very grave and pale. She gave 
her message to Mrs. Browne, speaking little beyond 
what was absolutely necessary. Then she took Mag- 
gie aside, and suddenly burst into tears. 

“ Maggie, darling — what is this going to America ? 
You’ve always and always been sacrificing yourself 
to your family, and now you ’re , setting off, nobody 
knows where, in some vain hope of reforming Ed- 
ward. I wish he was not your brother, that I might 
speak of him as I should like.” 

“He has been doing what is very wrong,” said 
Maggie. “ But you — none of you — know his good 
points — nor how he has been exposed to all sorts of 
bad influences, I am sure ; and never had the advan- 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 157 

tage of a father’s training and friendship, which are 
so inestimable to a son. Oh, Minnie ! when I re-; 
member how we two used to kneel down in' the 
evenings at my father’s knee, and say our prayers ; 
and then listen in awe-struck silence to his earnest 
blessing, which grew more like a prayer for us as his 
life waned away, I would do anything for Edward 
rather than that wrestling agony of supplication 
should have been in vain. I think of him as the 
little innocent boy, whose arm was round me as if to 
support me in the Awful Presence, whose true name 
of Love we had not learned. Minnie ! he has had 
no proper training — no training, I mean, to enable 
him to resist temptation’ — and ho has been thrown 
into it without warning or advice. Now he knows 
what it is ; and I must try, though I am but an 
unknowing girl, to warn and to strengthen him. 
Don’t weaken my faith. Who can do right if we 
lose faith in them ?” 

“ And Frank !” said Erminia, after a pause. 

Poor Frank !” 

“ Dear Frank !” replied Maggie, looking up, and 
trying to smile ; but, in spite of herself, her eyes 
filled with tears. “ If I could have asked him, I 
know he would approve of what I am going to do. 
He would feel it to be right that I should make 
every effort — I don’t mean,” said she, as the tears 
would fall down her cheeks in spite of her quivering 


158 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


eftbrt at a smile, “ that I should not have liked to 
have seen him. But it is no use talking of what one 
would have liked. I am writing a long letter to 
him at every pause of leisure.” 

“ And I ’m keeping you all this time,” said Er- 
minia, getting up, yet loth to go. “ When do you 
intend to come hack ? Let us feel there is a fixed 
time. America ! Why, it ’s thousands of miles 
away. Oh, Maggie ! Maggie !” 

“ I shall come back the next autumn, I trust,” 
said Maggie, comforting her friend with many a soft 
caress. Edward will be settled then, I hope. You 
were longer in France, Minnie. Frank was longer 
away that time he wintered in Italy with Mr. Monro.” 

Erminia went slowly to the door. Then she 
turned, right facing Maggie. 

“ Maggie ! tell the truth. Has my uncle been 
urging you to go? Because if he has, don’t trust 
him ; it is only to break off your engagement.” 

“ No, he has not, indeed. It was my own thought 
at first. Then in a moment I saw the relief it was. 
to my mother — my poor mother ! Erminia, the 
thought of her grief at Edward’s absence is the trial ; 
for my sake, you will come often and often, and com- 
fort her in every way you can.” 

“Yes! that I will; tell me everything I can do 
for you.” Kissing each other, with long lingering 
delay they parted. 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


159 


Nancy would be informed of the cause of the com- 
motion in the house ; and when she had in some de- 
gree ascertained its nature, she wasted no time in 
asking further questions, but quietly got up and 
dressed herself ; and appeared among them, weak 
and trembling, indeed, but so calm and thoughtful, 
that her presence was an infinite help to Maggie. 

‘ When day closed in, Edward stole down to the 
house once more. He was haggard enough to have 
been in anxiety and concealment for a month. But 
when his body was refreshed, his spirits rose in a way 
inconceivable to Maggie. The Spaniards who went 
out with Pizarro were not lured on by more fantastic 
notions of the wealth to be acquired in the New 
World than he was. He dwelt on these visions in 
so brisk and vivid a manner, that he even made his 
mother cease her weary weeping (which had lasted 
the livelong day, despite all Maggie’s efforts) to look 
up and listen to him. 

“ I ’ll answer for it,” said he : before long I ’ll 
be an American judge, with miles of cotton planta- 
tions.” 

“ But in America,” sighed out his mother. 

“ Never mind, mother !” said he, with a tenderness 
which made Maggie’s heart glad. “ If you won’t 
come over to America to me, why, I ’ll sell them all, 
and come back to live in England. People will for- 


160 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE 


get the scrapes that the rich American got into in 
his yonth.” 

“ You can pay back Mr. Buxton then,” said his 
mother. 

Oh, yes — of course,” replied he, as if falling into 
a new and trivial idea. 

Thus the evening whiled away. The mother and 
son sat, hand in hand, before the little glinting 
blazing parlor fire, with the unlighted candles on the 
table behind. Maggie, busy in preparations, passed 
softly in and out. And when all was done that could 
be done before going to Liverpool, where she hoped 
to have two days to prepare their outfit more com- 
pletely, she stole back to her mother’s side. But her 
thoughts would wander off to Frank, “ working his 
way south through all the hunting-counties,” as he 
had written her word. If she had not urged his 
absence, he would have been here for her to see his 
noble face once more ; but then, perhaps, she might 
never have had the strength to go. 

Late, late in the night they separated. Maggie 
could not rest, and stole into her mother’s room. 
Mrs. Browne had cried herself to sleep, like a child. 
Maggie stood and looked at her face, and then knelt 
down by the bed and prayed. When she arose, she 
saw that her mother was awake, and had been look- 
ing at her. 

“ Maggie dear ! you ’re a good girl, and I think 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


161 


God will hear your prayer whatever it was for. I 
cannot tell you what a relief it is to me to think 
you ’re going with him. It would have broken my 
heart else. If I ’ve sometimes not been as kind as I 
might have been, I ask your forgiveness, now, my 
dear ; and I bless you and thank you for going out 
with him; for I ’m sure he ’s not well and strong, and 
will need somebody" to take care of him. And you 
shan’t lose with Mr. Frank, for as sure as I sec him 
I ’ll tell him what a good daughter and sister you ’ve 
been ; and I shall say, for all he is so rich, I think 
he may look long before he finds a wife for him like 
our Maggie. I do wish Ned had got that new great- 
coat, he says he left behind him at Woodchester.” 
Her mind reverted to her darling son ; but Maggie 
took her short slumber by her mother’s side, with her 
mother’s arms around her ; and awoke and felt that 
her sleep had been blessed. At the coach-office the 
next morning they met Mr. Buxton all ready as if 
for a journey, but glancing about him as if in fear of 
some coming enemy. 

I ’m going with you to Liverpool,” said he. 

Don’t make any ado about it, please. I shall like 
to see you off ; and I may be of some use to you, and 
Erminia begged it of me ; and, besides, it will keep 
me out of Mr. Henry’s way for a little time, and I ’m 
afraid he will find it all out, and think me very weak ; 
but you see he made me too hard upon Crayston, so 
11 


162 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


I may take it out in a little soft-heartedness toward 
the son of an old friend.” 

Just at this moment Erminia came running 
through the white morning mist all glowing with 
haste. 

“ Maggie,” said she, “ I ’m come to take care of 
your mother. My uncle says she and Nancy must 
come to us for a long, long visit. Or if she would 
rather go home, I ’ll go with her till she feels able 
to come to us, and do anything I can think of for 
her. I will try to be a daughter till you come back, 
Maggie ; only don’t be long, or Frank and I shall 
break our hearts.” 

Maggie waited till her mother had ended her long 
clasping embrace of Edward, who was subdued 
enough this morning ; and then, with something like 
Esau’s craving for a blessing, she came to bid her 
mother good-bye, and received the warm caress she 
had longed for for years. In another moment the 
coach was away; and before half an hour had 
elapsed, Combehurst church-spire had been lost in a 
turn of the road. 

Edward and Mr. Buxton did not speak to each 
other, and Maggie was nearly silent. They reached 
Liverpool in the afternoon ; and Mr. Buxton, who 
had been there once or twice before, took them 
directly to some quiet hotel. He was far more 
anxious that Edward should not expose himself to 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


163 


any chance of recognition than Edward himself. 
He went down to the Docks to secure berths in the 
vessel about to sail the next day, and on his return 
he took Maggie out to make the requisite purchases. 

“ Did you pay for us, sir ?” said Maggie, anxious 
"^to ascertain the amount of money she had left, after 
defraying the passage. 

“Yes,” replied he, rather confused. “Erminia 
begged me not to tell you about it, but I can’t 
manage a secret well. You see she did not like the 
idea of your going as steerage-passengers as you 
meant to do ; and she desired me to take you cabin 
places for her. It is no doing of mine, my dear. I 
did not think of it; but now I have seen how 
crowded the steerage is, I am very glad Erminia 
had so much thought. Edward might have roughed 
it well enough there, but it would never have done 
for you.” 

“ It was very kind of Erminia,” said Maggie, 
touched at this consideration of her friend; “but” — 

“Now don’t ‘but’ about it,” interrupted he. 
“ Erminia is very rich, and has more money than 
she knows what to do with. I ’m only vexed I did 
not think of it myself For Maggie, though I may 
have my own ways of thinking on some points, I 
can’t be blind to your goodness.” 

All evening Mr. Buxton was busy, and busy on 
their behalf Even Edward, when he saw the at- 


164 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


tention that was being paid to his physical comfort, 
felt a kind of penitence ; and, after choking once or 
twice in the attempt, conquered his pride (such I 
call it for want of a better word) so far as to express 
some regret for his past conduct, and some gratitude 
for Mr. Buxton’s present kindness. He did it 
awkwardly enough, but it pleased Mr. Buxton. 

“Well — well — that’s all very right,” said he, 
reddening from his own uncomfortableness of feel- 
ing. “ Now don’t say any more about it, but do your 
best in America ; don’t let me feel I ’ve been a fool 
in letting you off. I know Mr. Henry will think 
me so. And, above all, take care of Maggie. 
Mind what she says, and you ’re sure to go right.” 

He asked them to go on board early the next 
day, as he had promised Erminia to see them there, 
and yet wished to return as soon as he could. It 
was evident that he hoped, by making his absence 
as short as possible, to prevent Mr. Henry’s ever 
knowing that he had left home, or in any way con- 
nived at Edward’s escape. 

So, although the vessel was not to sail till the 
afternoon’s tide, they left the hotel soon after break- 
fast, and went to the “Anna-Maria.” They were 
among the first passengers on board. Mr. Buxton 
took Maggie down to her cabin. She then saw the 
reason of his business the evening before. Every 
store that could be provided was there. A number 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


165 


of books lay on the little table — books just suited 
to Maggie’s taste. “ There !” said he, rubbing his 
hands. “ Don’t thank me. It ’s all Erminia’s 
doing. She gave me the list of books. I ’ve not 
got all ; but I think they ’ll be enough. Just write 
me one line, Maggie, to say I ’ve done my best.” 

Maggie wrote with tears in her eyes — tears of 
love toward the generous Erminia. A few minutes 
more and Mr. Buxton was gone. Maggie watched 
him as long as she could see him ; and as his portly 
figure disappeared among the crowd on the pier, 
her heart sank within her. 

Edward’s, on the contrary, rose at his absence. 
The only one, cognisant of his shame and ill-doing, 
was gone. A new life lay before him, the opening 
of which was made agreeable to him, by the position 
in which he found himself placed, as a cabin-passen- 
ger ; with many comforts provided for him ; for 
although Maggie’s wants had been the principal 
object of Mr. Buxton’s attention, Edward was not 
forgotten. 

He was soon among the sailors, talking away in a 
rather consequential manner. He grew acquainted 
with the remainder of the cabin-passengers, at least 
those who arrived before the final bustle began ; and 
kept bringing his sister such little pieces of news as 
he could collect. 


166 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


Maggie, they say we are likely to have a good 
start, and a fine moonlight night.” Away again he 
went. 

“I say, Maggie, there’s an uncommonly pretty 
girl come on board, with those old people in black. 
Gone down into the cabin, now ; I wish you would 
scrape up an acquaintance with her, and give me a 
chance.” 


CHAPTEE XI. 


Maggie sat on deck, wrapped in her dufifel-cloak ; 
the old familiar cloak, which had been her wrap in 
many a happy walk in the haunts near her moorland 
home. The weather was not cold for the time of 
year, but still it was chilly to any one that was sta- 
tionary. But she wanted to look her last on the 
shoals of English people, who crowded backward 
and forward, like ants, on the pier. Happy people ! 
who might stay among their loved ones. The mock- 
ing demons gathered round her, as they gather 
round all who sacrifice self, tempting. A crowd of 
suggestive doubts pressed upon her. “ Was it really 
necessary that she should go with Edward ? Could 
she do him any real good ? Would he be in any 
way influenced by her?” Then the demon tried 
another description of doubt. ‘^Had it ever been 
her duty to go ? She was leaving her mother alone. 
She was giving Frank much present sorrow. It was 
not even yet too late !” She could not endure 
longer ; and replied to her own tempting heart. 


168 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


I was riglit to hope for Edward ; I am right to . 
give him the chance of steadiness which my presence 
will give. I am doing what my mother earnestly 
wished me to do ; and what to the last she felt 
relieved by my doing. I know Erank will feel sor- 
row, because I myself have such an aching heart ; 
hut if I had asked him whether I was not right in 
going, he would have been too truthful not to have 
said yes. I have tried to do right, and though 1 
may fail, and evil may seem to arise rather than 
good out of my endeavor, yet still I will submit to 
my failure, and try and ,say ‘ God’s will be done !’ 
If only I might have seen Frank once more, and told 
him all face to face !” 

To do away with such thoughts, she determined no 
longer to sit gazing, and tempted by the shore ; and, 
giving one look to the land which contained her 
lover, she went down below, and busied herself, even 
through her blinding tears, in trying to arrange her 
own cabin, and Edward’s. She heard boat after 
boat arrive loaded with passengers. She learnt from 
Edward, who came down to tell her the fact, that 
there were upwards of two hundred steerage passen- 
gers. She felt the tremulous shake which announced 
that the ship was loosed from her moorings, and 
being tugged down the river. She wrapped her- 
self up once more, and came on deck, and sat down 
among the many who were looking their last look at 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


169 


England. The early winter evening was darkening 
in, and shutting out the Welsh coast, the hills of 
which were like the hills of home. She was thank- 
ful when she became too ill to think and remember. 

Exhausted and still, she did not know whether she 
was sleeping or waking ; or whether she had slept 
since she had thrown herself down on her cot, when 
suddenly, there was a great rush, and then Edward 
stood like lightning by her, pulling her up by the 
arm. 

“ The ship is on fire — to the deck, Maggie ! Fire ! 
Fire !” he shouted, like a maniac, while he dragged 
her up the stairs — as if the cry of Fire could sum- 
mon human aid on the great deep. And the cry 
was echoed up to heaven by all that crowd in an 
accent of despair. 

They stood huddled together, dressed and un- 
dressed ; now in red lurid light, showing ghastly 
faces of terror — now in white wreaths of smoke — as 
far away from the steerage as they could press ; for 
there, up from the hold, rose columns of smoke, and 
now and then a fierce blaze leaped out, exulting — 
higher and higher every time ; while from each 
crevice on that part of the deck issued harbingers of 
the terrible destruction that awaited them. 

The sailors were lowering the boats ; and above 
them stood the captain, as calm as if he were on his 
own hearth at home — his home where he never more 


170 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


should be. His voice was low — was lower ; but as 
clear as a bell in its distinctness ; as wise in its direc- 
tions as collected thought could make it. Some of 
the steerage passengers were helping ; but more were 
dumb and motionless with affright. In that dead 
silence was heard a low wail of sorrow, as of numbers 
whose power was crushed out of them by that awful 
terror. Edward still held his clutch of Margaret’s 
arm. 

Be ready !” said he, in a fierce whisper. 

The fire sprung up along the main -mast, and did 
not sink or disappear again. They knew then that 
all the mad efforts made by some few below to extin- 
guish it were in vain ; and then went up the prayers 
of hundreds, in mortal agony of fear : — 

“ Lord ! have mercy upon us !” 

Not in quiet calm of village church did ever such • 
a pitiful cry go up to heaven ; it was like one voice — 
like the day of judgment in the presence of the 
Lord. 

And after that there was no more silence ; but a 
confusion of terrible farewells, and wild cries of af- 
fright, and purposeless rushes hither and thither. 

The boats were down, rocking on the sea. The 
captain spoke : 

“ Put the children in first ; they are the most 
helpless.” 

One or two stout sailors stood in the boats to 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


171 


receive them. Edward drew nearer and nearer to 
the gangway, pulling Maggie with him. She was 
almost pressed to death, and stifled. Close in her 
ear, she heard a woman praying to herself. She, 
poor creature, knew of no presence but God’s in that 
awful hour, and spoke in a low voice to Him. 

“ My heart’s darlings are taken away from me. 
Faith ! faith ! Oh, my great God ! I will die in 
peace, if Thou wilt but grant me faith in this terri- 
ble hour, to feel that Thou wilt take care of my poor 
orphans. Hush ! dearest Billy,” she cried out shrill 
to a little fellow in the boat, waiting for his mother ; 
and the change in her voice, from despair to a kind 
of cheerfulness, showed what a mother’s love can do. 
“ Mother will come soon. Hide his face, Anne, and 
wrap your shawl tight round him.” And then her 
voice sank down again in the same low, wild prayer 
for faith. Maggie could not turn to see her face, 
but took the hand which hung near her. The woman 
clutched at it with the grasp of a vice ; but went on 
praying, as if unconscious. Just then the crowd 
gave way a little. The captain had said, that the 
women were to go next ; but they were too frenzied 
to obey his directions, and now pressed backward 
and forward. The sailors, with mute, stern obedi- 
ence, strove to follow out the captain’s directions. 
Edward pulled Maggie, and she kept her hold on 


172 THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 

the mother. The mate, at the head of the gangway, 
pushed him back. 

“ Only women are to go !” 

‘‘ There are are men there.’' 

“ Three, to manage the boat.” 

Come on, Maggie ! while there ’s room for us,” 
said he, unheeding. But Maggie drew back, and 
put the mother’s hand into the mate’s. “ Save her 
first !” said she. The woman did not know of any- 
thing, but that her children were there ; it was only 
in after days, and quiet hours, that she remembered 
the young creature who pushed her forward to join 
her fatherless children, and, by losing her place in 
the crowd, was jostled — where, she did not know — 
but dreamed until her dying day. Edward pressed 
on, unaware that Maggy was not close behind him. 
He was deaf to reproaches ; and, heedless of the hand 
stretched out to hold him back, sprang toward the 
boat. The men there pushed her off — full and more 
than full as she was ; and overboard he fell into the 
sullen heaving waters. 

His last shout had been on Maggie’s name — a 
name she never thought to hear again on earth, as 
she was pressed back, sick and suffocating. But sud- 
denly a voice rang out above all confused voices and 
moaning hungry waves, and above the roaring fire. 

“ Maggie, Maggie ! My Maggie !” 

Out of the steerage side nf the crowd a tall figure 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. ' 173 

issued forth, begrimed with smoke. She could not 
see, but she knew. As a tame bird flutters to the 
human breast of its protector when affrighted by 
some mortal foe, so Maggie fluttered and cowered 
into his arms. And, for a moment, there was no' 
more terror or thought of danger in the hearts of 
those twain, but only infinite and absolute peace. 
She had no wonder how he came there ; it was 
enough that he was there. He first thought of the 
destruction that was present with them. He was as 
calm and composed as if they sat beneath the thorn- 
tree on the still moorlands, far away. He took her, 
without a word, to the end of the quarter-deck. He 
lashed her to a piece of spar. She never spoke : 

“ Maggie,” he said, “ my only chance is to throw 
you overb.oard. This spar will keep you floating. At 
first, you will go down— deep, deep down. Keep 
your mouth and eyes shut. I shall be there when 
you come up. By God’s help, I will struggle bravely 
for you.” 

She looked up ; and by the flashing light he could 
see a trusting, loving smile upon her face. And he 
smiled back at her ; a grave, beautiful look, fit to 
wear on his face in heaven. He helped her to the 
side of the vessel, away from the falling burning 
pieces of mast. Then for a moment he paused. 

If — Maggie, I may be throwing you in to 


174 THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 

death.” He put his hand before his eyes. The 
strong man lost courage. Then she spoke — 

“ I am not afraid ; God is with us, whether we live 
or die !” She looked as quiet and happy as a child 
on its mother’s breast ! and so before he lost heart 
again, he heaved her up, and threw her as far as he 
could over into the glaring, dizzying water; and 
straight leaped after her. She came up with an in- 
voluntary look of terror on her face ; but when she 
saw him by the red glare of the burning ship, close 
by her side, she shut her eyes, and looked as if peace- 
fully going to sleep. He swam, guiding the spar. 

“I think we are near Llandudno. I know we 
have passed the little Ormes’ head.” That was all 
he said ; but she did not speak. 

He swam out of the heat and fierce blaze of light 
into the quiet, dark waters ; and then into the moon’s 
path. It might be half an hour before he got into 
that silver stream. When the beams fell down upon 
them he looked at Maggie. Her head rested on the 
spar, quite still. He could not bear it. “ Maggie — 
dear heart ! speak !” 

With a great effort she was called back from the 
borders of death by that voice, and opened her filmy 
eyes, which looked abroad as if she could see nothing 
nearer than the gleaming lights of Heaven. She let 
the lids fall softly again. He was as if alone in the 
wide world with God. 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. VJi) 

“ A quarter of an hour more and all is over,” 
thought he. “ The people at Llandudno must see 
our burning ship, and will come out in their boats.” 
He kept in the line of light, although it did not lead 
him direct to the shore, in order that they might be 
seen. He swam with desperation. One moment he 
thought he had heard her last gasp rattle through 
the rush of the waters ; and all strength was gone, 
and he lay on the waves as if he himself must die, 
and go with her spirit straight through that purple 
lift to heaven ; the next he heard the splash of oars, 
and raised himself and cried aloud. The boatmen 
took them in — and examined her by the lantern 
— and spoke in Welsh — and shook their heads. 
Frank threw himself on his knees, and prayed them 
to take her to land. They did not know his words, 
but they understood his prayer. He kissed her lips 
— he chafed her hands — he wrung the water out of 
her hair — he held her feet against his warm breast. 

“ She is not dead,” he kept saying to the men, as 
he saw their sorrowful, pitying looks. 

The kind people at Llandudno had made ready 
their own humble beds, with every appliance of com- 
fort they could think of, as soon as they understood 
the nature of the calamity which had befallen the ship 
on their coasts. Frank walked, dripping, bareheaded, 
by the body of his Margaret, which was borne by 
some men along the rocky sloping shore. 


176 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


“ She is not dead !” he said. He stopped at the 
first house they came to. It belonged to a kind- 
hearted woman. They laid Maggie in her bed, and 
got the village doctor to come and see her. 

“ There is life still,” said he, gravely. 

“ I knew it,” said Frank. But it felled him to the 
ground. He sank first in prayer, and then in insen- 
sibility. The doctor did everything. All that night 
long he passed to and fro from house to house ; for 
several had swum to ‘Llandudno. Others, it was 
thought, had gone to Abergele. 

In the morning Frank was recovered enough to 
write to his father, by Maggie’s bedside. He sent 
the letter off to Conway by a little bright-looking 
Welsh boy. Late in the afternoon she awoke. 

In a moment or two she looked eagerly round her, 
as if gathering in her breath ; and then she covered 
her head and sobbed. 

“ Where is Edward ?” asked she. 

“We do not know,” said Frank, gravely. “ I 
have been round the village, and seen every survivor 
here ; he is not among them, but he may be at some 
other place along the coast.” 

She was silent, reading in his eyes his fears— his 
belief 

At last she asked again. 

“ I cannot understand it. My head is not clear. 
There are such rushing noises in it. How came you 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


177 


there She shuddered involuntarily as she recalled 
the terrible where. 

For an instant he dreaded, for her sake, to recall 
the circumstances of the night before ; but then he 
^ understood how her mind would dwell Upon them 
until she was satisfied. 

“ You remember writing to me, love, telling me 
all. I got your letter — I don’t know how long ago — 
yesterday, I think. Yes ! in the evening. You 
could not think, Maggie, I would let you go alone to 
America. I won’t speak against Edward, poor fel- 
low I but we must both allow that he was not the 
person to watch over you as such a treasure should be 
watched over. I thought I would go with you. I 
hardly know if I meant to make myself known to you 
all at once, for I had no wish to have much to do 
with your brother. I see now that it was selfish in 
me. Well ! there was nothing to be done, after 
receiving your letter, but to set off for Liverpool 
straight, and join you. And after that decision was 
made, my spirits rose, for the old talks about Canada 
and Australia came to my mind, and this seemed 
like a realization of them. Besides, Maggie, I sus- 
pected — I even suspect now — that my father had 
something to do with your going with Edward 

“ Indeed, Frank !” said she, earnestly, “ you are 
mistaken ; I cannot tell you all now ; but he was so 
good and kind at last. He never urged me to go ; 

12 


178 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


though, 1 believe, he did tell me it would be the 
saving of Edward.” 

“ Don’t agitate yourself, love. I trust there will 
be time enough, some happy day at home, to tell me 
all. And till then, I will believe that my father did 
not in any way suggest this voyage. But you’ll 
allow that, after all that has passed, it was not un- 
natural in me to suppose so. I only told Middleton 
I was obliged to leave him by the next train. It 
was not till T was fairly off, that I began to reckon 
up what money I had with me. I doubt even if 1 
was sorry to find it was so little. I should have to 
put forth my energies and fight ray way, as I had 
often wanted to do. I remember, I thought how hap- 
py you and I would be, striving together as poor peo- 
ple ‘ in that new world which is the old.’ Then you 
had told me you were going in the steerage ; and 
that was all suitable to my desires for myself.” 

“ It was Erminia’s kindness that prevented our 
going there. She -asked your father to take us cabin 
places unknown to me.” 

“ Did she ? dear Erminia ! it is just like her. 
I could almost laugh to remember the eagerness 
with which I doffed my signs of wealth, and put on 
those of poverty. I sold my watch when I got into 
Liverpool — yesterday, I believe — but it seems like 
months ago. And I rigged myself out at a slop-shop 
with suitable clothes for a steerage passenger. 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 179 

Maggie ! you never told me the name of the vessel 
you were going to sail in !” 

“ I did not know it till I got to ijivcrpool. All 
Mr. Buxton said was, that some ship sailed on the 
I5th.” 

“ I concluded it must be the Anna-Maria, (poor 
Anna-Maria !) and I had no time to lose. She had 
just heaved her anchor when I came on board. 
Don’t you recollect a boat hailing her at the last mo- 
ment ? There were three of us in her.” 

- “ No ! I was below in my cabin — trying not to 
think,” said she, coloring a little. 

“ Well ! as soon as I got on board it began to 
grow dark, or, perhaps, it Avas the fog on the river ; 
at any rate, instead of being able to single out your 
figure at once, Maggie — it is one among a thousand — 
I had to go peering into every woman’s face ; and 
many were below. I went betAveen decks, and by- 
and-by I was afraid I had mistaken the vessel ; I 
sat down — I had no spirit to stand ; and every time 
the door opened I roused up and looked — but you 
never came. I was thinking what to do ; whether 
to be put on shore in Ireland, or to go on to NeAV 
York, and Avait for you there ; — it was the worst 
time of all, for I had nothing to do ; and the sus- 
pense was horrible. I might have known,” said he, 
smiling, “ my little Emperor of Russia was not one 
to be a steerage passenger.” 


180 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


But Maggie was too much shaken to smile ; and 
the thought of Edward lay heavy upon her mind. 

Then the fire broke out ; how, or why, 1 suppose 
will never be ascertained. It was at our end of the 
vessel. I thanked God, then, that you were not 
there. The second mate wanted some one to go 
down with him to bring up the gunpowder, and 
throw it overboard. I had nothing to do, and I 
went. We wrapped it up in wet sails, but it was a 
ticklish piece of work, and took time. When wc 
had got it overboard, the flames were gathering far 
and wide. I don’t remember what I did until I 
heard Edward’s voice speaking your name.” 

It was decided that the next morning they should 
set off homeward, striving on their way to obtain 
tidings of Edward. Frank would have given his 
only valuable, (his mother’s diamond -guard, which 
he wore constantly,) as a pledge for some advance 
of money; but the kind Welsh people would not 
have it. They had not much spare cash, but wliat 
they had they readily lent to the survivors of the 
Anna-Maria. Dressed in the homely country garb 
of the people, Frank and Maggie set off in their car. 
It was a clear, frosty morning ; the first that winter. 
The road soon lay high up on the cliffs along the 
coast. They looked down on the sea rocking below. 
At every village they stopped, and Frank inquired, 
and made the driver inquire in Welsh ; but no 


THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


181 


tidings gained they of Edward ; though here and 
there Maggie watched Frank into some cottage or 
other, going to see a dead body, beloved by some 
one : and when he came out, solemn and grave, their 
sad eyes met, and she knew it was not he they 
sought, without needing words. 

At Abergele they stopped to rest ; and because, 
being a larger place, it would need a longer search, 
Maggie lay down on the sofa, for she was very weak, 
and shut her eyes, and tried not to see forever and 
ever that mad struggling crowd lighted by the red 
flames. 

Frank came back in an hour or so ; and soft 
behind him — laboriously treading on tiptoe — Mr. 
Buxton followed. He was evidently choking down 
his sobs ; but when he saw the white wan figure of 
Maggie, he held out his arms. 

“ My dear ! my daughter !” he said, “ God bless 
you !” He could not speak more — he was fairly 
crying ; but he put her hand in Frank’s and kept 
holding them both. 

“ My father,” said Frank, speaking in a husky 
voice, while his eyes filled with tears, “ had heard" 
of it before he received my letter. I might have 
known that the lighthouse signals would take it fast 
to Liverpool. I had written a few lines to him 
saying I was going to you; happily they never 
reached — that was spared to my dear father.” 


132 THE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 

Maggie saw the look of restored confidence that 
passed between father and son. 

“ My mother said she at last. 

‘‘ She is here/’ said they both at once, with sad 
solemnity. 

“ Oh, where ? Why did not you tell me?” ex- 
claimed she, starting up. But their faces told her 
why. 

“ Edward is drowned — is dead,” said she, reading 
iheir looks. 

There was no answer. 

“ Let me go to my mother.” 

“ Maggie, she is with him. His body was washed 
ashore last night. My father and she heard of it as 
they came along. Can you bear to see her ? She 
will not leave him.” 

“ Take me to her,” Maggie answered. 

They led her into a bed-room. Stretched on the 
bed lay Edward, but now so full of hope and world 
ly plans. 

Mrs. Browne looked round, and saw Maggie. 
She did not get up from her place by his head ; noi 
did she long avert her gaze from his poor face. But 
she held Maggie’s hand, as the girl knelt by her, and 
spoke to her in a hushed voice, undisturbed by tears. 
Her miserable heart could not find that relief 

“ He is dead ! — he is gone ! — ^lie will never come 
back again ! If he had gone to America — it migh 


TEIE MOORLAND COTTAGE. 


183 


have been years first — but he would have come back 
to me. But now he will never come back again ; — 
never — never !” 

Her voice died away, as the wailings of the night- 
wind die in the distance ; and there was silence — 
silence more sad and hopeless than any passionate 
words of grief. 

And to this day it is the same. She prizes her 
dead son more than a thousand living daughters, 
happy and prosperous as is Maggie now — rich in the 
love of many. If Maggie did not show such rever- 
ence to her mother’s faithful sorrows, others might 
wonder at her refusal to be comforted by that sweet 
daughter. But Maggie treats her with such tender 
sympathy, never thinking of herself or her own 
claims, that Frank, Erminia, Mr. Buxton, Nancy, 
and all, are reverent and sympathizing too. 

Over both old and young the memory of one who 
is dead broods like a dove — of one who could do but 
little during her lifetime — who was doomed only to 
stand and wait” — who was meekly content to be 
gentle, holy, patient, and undefiled — the memory of 
the invalid Mrs. Buxton. 

there’s rosemary for remembrance.” 



A* 





\ 




1 



r 






>< 



« 


Vf 


t 

4 


s 




1 





I 




4 


$ 

* ' I 


A 

< / 


'f 



I 




« 


1 


* \ 


I 








‘-V. * ’' 

I*. ., 

• • ' 

> V' ^ 




I « 

w ' ■ 







/ 

* 


0 


I 


0 









i 



% 





/ • 

% 




.f 


\ 








1 


f 






library of congress 




* 











